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INNS AND TAVERNS OF OLD LONDON 


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king’s ead Tavern, Fleet Street 
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ERASE 
SETTING FORTH THE HISTORICAL AND LITER- 
ARY ASSOCIATIONS OF THOSE ANCIENT HOS- 
TELRIES, TOGETHER WITH AN ACCOUNT OF 
THE MOST NOTABLE COFFEE-HOUSES, CLUBS, 
AND PLEASURE GARDENS OF THE BRITISH 

pore 

ERATOR 


METROPOLIS 
BY 


HENRY C. SHELLEY 
Author of “Untrodden English Ways,” etc. 


Illustrated 


GABOR) 


Cay oR 


‘coe cua , 
Meany 
logy! S 


Tagg 


BOSTON 
L. C. PAGE & COMPANY 


(INCORPORATED) 
MDCCCCXXIII 


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EG(( 


Copyright, 1909 
By L. C. Pace & Company 
(INCORPORATED ) 


Entered at Stationers’ Hall, London 


All rights reserved 


New Edition, July, 1923 


Made in U.S.A. 


PRINTED BY C. H. SIMONDS COMPANY 
BOSTON, MASS., U. S. A. 


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Iv the first edition of this book the four 
illustrations entitled, The Tabard Inn, 
Bridge-Foot Southwark, The Boar’s Head, 
and The White Hart, were madvertently 
reproduced from Philip Norman’s admi- 
rable work on ‘‘The Inns of Old Southwark 
and Their Associations,’’? an wuninten- 
tional infringement of that author’s copy- 
right which is much regretted. By friendly 
arrangement with Mr. Norman those illus- 
trations are retained in the present edition. 


PREFACE 


For all races of Teutonic origin the claim is 
made that they are essentially home-loving 
people. Yet the Englishman of the sixteenth 
and seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, espe- 
cially of the latter, is seen to have exercised 
considerable zeal in creating substitutes for 
that home which, as a Teuton, he ought to have 
loved above all else. This, at any rate, was 
emphatically the case with the Londoner, as the 
following pages will testify. When he had per- 
fected his taverns and inns, perfected them, 
that is, according to the light of the olden time, 
he set to work evolving a new species of public 
resort in the coffee-house. That type of estab- 
lishment appears to have been responsible for 
the development of the club, another substitute 
for the home. And then came the age of the 
pleasure-garden. Both the latter survive, the 
one in a form of a more rigid exclusiveness 
than the eighteenth century Londoner would 
have deemed possible; the other in so changed 

Vv 


vl Preface 


a guise that frequenters of the prototype would 
scarcely recognize the relationship. But the 
coffee-house and the inn and tavern of old 
London exist but as a picturesque memory 
which these pages attempt to revive, 

Naturally much delving among records of 
the past has gone to the making of this book. 
To enumerate all the sources of information 
which have been laid under contribution would 
be a tedious task and need not be attempted, 
but it would be ungrateful to omit thankful ac- 
knowledgment to Henry B. Wheatley’s ex- 
haustive edition of Peter Cunningham’s 
‘‘ Handbook of London,’’ and to Warwick 
Wroth’s admirable volume on ‘‘ The London 
Pleasure Gardens of the Eighteenth Century.’’ 
Many of the illustrations have been specially 
photographed from rare engravings in the 
Print Room of the British Museum, 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 
PRE MACB ile ohio UR MILO AY Miah amis JOC kllAt ia A 


I. INNS AND TAVERNS OF OLD LONDON 


I. Famous SoutHwark INNS . ; i : 1 
II. Inns anp TAVERNS East oF St. Rice By . 80 
III. Taverns or FLEET STREET AND THEREABOUTS 62 
IV. Taverns West or TempLe Bar ; i »)) 102 
V. Inns anp Taverns FurtTHER AFIELD Aye RI >: &, 


Il. COFFEE-HOUSES OF OLD LONDON 


J. CoFFEE-HOUSES ON ’CHANGE AND NEAR-BY . 163 
II. Rowunp Sr. Pauvw’s . ; : ; en? ba 3) 
III. Tue Srranp anp CovENT Capa : : . 200 
IV. Furtuer WEstT NAT ee eo inst eS Han a aT Pee 


Ill. THE CLUBS OF OLD LONDON 


I. LireRary : : : t y : : 6-248 
II. Soctan AND GAMING , : ; : 4 VOB 


IV. PLEASURE GARDENS OF OLD LONDON 


I. VAUXHALL ; 4 ; . | } : 2 OE 
II. RANELAGH . : : i Y PE HAINES x By 
III. Orner Favourite Bakcene : } RM cate tits #5 


INDEX . : : , ; ; ‘ . 357 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 
Kine’s Heap TAVERN, FLEET STREET . . Frontispiece 
GEOFFREY CHAUCER é Z b : s , : G 8 
WABABD INN, SOUTHWARK, (IN) 1810.05 00620 Oh OS a erg 
BRIDGE-FOOT, SOUTHWARK, SHOWING THE BEAR INN IN 
1616. . ee SG TASTY | 
CouRTYARD OF Boar’s Heap. Inn, SouTHWARK 2 Nea ps 
GEORGE INN . PRATT We Se Sat aiid We SOM WON NO AU TACCILLY SEARS hives hac ee 
BvHrTe. TART OINN OSOUPHWARK 5b cl koe ov adie | 28 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH . : " f ‘ 3 Pisa 
Cock InN, LEADENHALL STREET . yg) 2 ual a eres So alee 
PAUL aes TAVERN . i 2 Pe Rae +N § 
ANCIENT VIEW OF CHEAPSIDE, Senin THE ee Ss Hap 
INN y : : 2 SN UN aaa ne a CN EO aa 
A FRENCH Apes IN LonDON CEA Ay ye WM REG Ne 
Yarp or BELLE SavuvacEe INN. Z # ‘ ape (G 
THE CHESHIRE CHEESE — ENTRANCE FROM Ree STREET 79 
Tue CHESHIRE CHEESE — THE JOHNSON Room HME RCS 1 
Dr. SAMUEL JOHNSON . 5 uf : ‘ Se Sn TOaD 
TABLET AND BUST FROM THE DEVIL TAVERN . 4 «95 
Brn JONSON ; . : : 2 A : : - 98 
FEATHERS TAVERN . hi : v 3 : x : - 136 
ADAM AND Eve TAVERN i . 4 : - 154 
A TRIAL BEFORE THE Pin-POWDER Couns AT THE HAND © 
AND SHEARS TAVERN p sal eee 5 ON . 156 


FaLtcon TAVERN, BANKSIDE . . . . « - - 159 
GABAA WAYS, COFPER-HOUSE oy hile Baie bie haw REO 
MAG DOG. IN, A ‘CORFEE-HOUBE . fh. a ieee ee Ue eh ed 
Tom’s CorFEE-HOUSE ... ile aa Su ae GON LO 
PAO YD BS CONFES-ELOUSE 6.6! [icbsas oh! hails ee ais RD 


x List of Illustrations 


PAGH 

GRECIAN CoFFEE-HOUSE . oles gg Nh iat le Wie a ele oa ce na 
JOHN DRYDEN . Sc ae AROS a Se ES on a 
JOSEPH ADDISON wes NR WN Cot EO Ua WRN Oi a 
Srr RicHARD STEELE NS NaC Ws S01 as Sor 
Lion’s Heap aT BuTTon’s Colmer ioee i =| aes 
Barrisn’ Corren-Hovuse oe a ee 
SLAUGHTER’s Correr-Hovusnp .\ . 6 °)0) 6S) Ud 
Otp Patace YaRD, WESTMINSTER - . . . . 234 
Don SALTERO’s CoFFEE-HOUSE .. oh LAIN a 
St. JamMEs’s STREET, SHOWING WHITE’S ON THE LEFT 

AND Brooks’s ON THE RIGHT ai SU Ne iS sie 
THE BRILLIANTS Bee ON CO Td SIRT) A 
‘“‘PROMISED HorROoRS OF THE FRENcH INVASION”. . 276 
GAMBLING SALOON AT Brooks’s CLUB oh. gh 
TICKETS FOR VAUXHALL Se eee Ts ik fone a - 296 
ENTRANCE TO VAUXHALL : ‘ ; ¢ ‘ 3 - 3800 
THE CITIZEN AT VAUXHALL . : 3 i : ' - 302 
ScENE AT VAUXHALL : é y i ce : - 1308 
VENETIAN MASQUERADE AT RANELAGH, 1749 : i - 318 
THE ASSAULT ON Dr. JoHN HILL aT an ee 4 £1 Soe 
MARYLEBONE GARDENS i eel A : - 340 
Wuitre Conpvuit House " Sib ponies gy eat 
BAGNIGGE.. WELLES SA Nin Se 


Fincu’s Grotto, SOUTHWARK . . . . «. « 8064 


INNS AND TAVERNS 
OF OLD LONDON 


———— 


I 
CHAPTER I 
FAMOUS SOUTHWARK INNS 


Unique among the quaint maps of old Lon- 
don is one which traces the ground-plan of 
Southwark as it appeared early in the sixteenth 
century. It is not the kind of map which would 
ensure examination honours for its author were 
he competing among schoolboys of the twen- 
tieth century, but it has a quality of archaic 
simplicity which makes it a more precious pos- 
session than the best examples of modern car- 
tography. Drawn on the principle that a min- 
imum of lines and a maximum of description 
are the best aid to the imagination, this plan of 
Southwark indicates the main routes of thor- 
oughfare with a few bold strokes, and then fills 

1 


9 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


in the blanks with queer little drawings of 
churches and inns, the former depicted in de- 
lightfully distorted perspective and the latter 
by two or three half-circular- strokes. That 
there may be no confusion between church and 
inn, the possibility of which is suggested by the 
fact that several of the latter are adorned with 
spire-like embellishments, the sixteenth-century 
cartographer told which were which in so many 
words. It is by close attention to,the letter- 
press, and by observing the frequent appear- 
ance of names which have age-long association 
with houses of entertainment, that the student 
of this map awakens to the conviction that an- 
cient Southwark rejoiced in a more than gener- 
ous provision of inns. 

Such was the case from the earliest period 
of which there is any record. The explanation 
is simple. The name of the borough supplies 
the clue. Southwark is really the south-work 
of London, that is, the southern defence or for- 
tification of the city. The Thames is here a 
moat of spacious breadth and formidable 
depth, yet the Romans did not trust to that 
defence alone, but threw up further obstacles 
for any enemy approaching the city from the 
south. It-was from that direction assault was 

(most likely/to come. Fret the western and 


Famous Southwark Inns 3 


southern counties of England, and, above all, 
from the Continent, this was the high road into 
the capital. 

All this had a natural result in times of 
peace. As London Bridge was the only cause- 
way over the Thames, and as the High street 
of Southwark was the southern continuation of 
that causeway, it followed that diplomatic vis- 
itors from the Continent and the countless tra- 
ders who had business in the capital were 
obliged to use this route coming and going. 
The logical result of this constant traffic is seen 
in the countless inns of the district. In the 
great majority of cases those visitors who had 
business in the city itself during the day elected 
to make their headquarters for the night on 
the southern shore of the Thames. 

Although no definite evidence is available, it 
is reasonable to conclude that the most ancient 
inns of Southwark were established at least as 
early as the most ancient hostelries of the city 
itself. To which, however, the prize of senior- 
ity 1s to be awarded can never be known. Yet 
on one matter there can be no dispute. Pride 
of place among the inns of Southwark belongs 
unquestionably to the Tabard.« Not that it is 
the most ancient, or has played the most con- 
spicuous part in the social or political life of 


4 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


the borough, but because the hand of the poet 
has lifted it from the realm of the actual and 
given it an enduring niche in the world of 
imagination. 

No evidence is available to establish the 
actual date when the Tabard was built; Stow 
speaks of it as among the ‘‘ most ancient ’’ of 
the locality; but the nearest approach to defi- 
nite dating assigns the inn to the early four- 
teenth century. One antiquary indeed fixes the 
earliest distinct record of the site of the inn in 
1304, soon after which the Abbot of Hyde, 
whose abbey was in the neighbourhood of Win- 
chester, here built himself a town mansion and 
probably at the same time a hostelry for trav- 
ellers. Three years later the Abbot secured a 
license to erect a chapel close by the inn. It 
seems likely, then, that the Tabard had its 
origin as an adjunct of the town house of a 
Hampshire ecclesiastic. 

But in the early history of the hostelry no 
fact stands out so clearly as that it was chosen 
by Chaucer as the starting-point for his im- 
mortal Canterbury pilgrims. More than two 
centuries had passed since Thomas a Becket 
had fallen before the altar of St. Benedict in 
the minster of Canterbury, pierced with many 


Famous Southwark Inns 5 


swords as his reward for contesting the su- 
premacy of the Church against Henry II. 

‘¢ What a parcel of fools and dastards have 
I nourished in my house,’’ cried the monarch 
when the struggle had reached an acute stage, 
‘‘ that not one of them will avenge me of this 
one upstart clerk!’’ 

Four knights took the king at his word, 
posted with all speed to Canterbury, and 
charged the prelate to give way to the wishes 
of the sovereign. 

‘< In vain you threaten me,’? A Becket re- 
joined. ‘‘ If all the swords in England were 
brandishing over my head, your terrors could 
not move me. Foot to foot you will find me 
fighting the battle of the Lord.”’ 

‘And then the swords of the knights flashed 
in the dim light of the minster and another 
name was added to the Church’s roll of mar- 
tyrs. The murder sent a thrill of horror 
through all Christendom; A Becket was speed- 
ily canonized, and his tomb became the objec- 
tive of countless pilgrims from every corner of 
the Christian world. 

In Chaucer’s days, some two centuries later, 
the pilgrimage had become a favourite occupa- 
tion of the devout. Each awakening of the 


6 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


year, when the rains of April had laid the dust 
of March and aroused the buds of tree and 
herb from their winter slumber, the longing to 
go on a pilgrimage seized all classes alike. 


** And specially, from every shires ende 
Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende, 
The holy blisful martir for to seke, 
That hem hath holpen, whan that they were seke.” 


Precisionists of the type who are never satis- 
fied unless they can apply chronology in the 
realm of imagination will have it that Chau- 
cer’s pilgrimage was a veritable event, and 
that it took place in April, 1388. They go 
further still and identify Chaucer’s host with 
the actual Henry Bailley, who certainly was in 
possession of the Tabard in years not remote 
from that date. The records show that he 
twice represented the borough of Southwark in 
Parliament, and another ancient document 
bears witness how he and his wife, Christian 
by name, were called upon to contribute two 
shillings to the subsidy of Richard II. These 
are the dry bones of history; for the living 
picture of the man himself recourse must be 
had to Chaucer’s verse: 


“ A semely man our hoste was with-alle 
For to han been a marshal in an halle; 


Famous Southwark Inns 7 | 


A large man he was with eyen stepe, 

A fairer burgeys is ther noon in Chepe: 

Bold of his speche, and wys, and well y-taught, 
And of manhood him lakkede right naught. 
Eke thereto he was right a merry man.” 


No twentieth century pilgrim to the Tabard 
inn must expect to find its environment at all 
in harmony with the picture enshrined in 
Chaucer’s verse. ‘The passing years have 
wrought a woeful and materializing change. 
The opening lines of the Prologue are perme- 
ated with a sense of the month of April, a 
‘breath of uncontaminate springtide’’ as 
Lowell puts it, and in those far-off years when 
the poet wrote, the beauties of the awakening 
year were possible of enjoyment in Southwark. 
Then the buildings of the High street were 
spaciously placed, with room for field and 
hedgerow; to-day they are huddled as closely 
together as the hand of man can set them, and 
the verdure of grass and tree is unknown. 
Nor is it otherwise with the inn itself, for its 
modern representative has no points of like- 
ness to establish a kinship with the structure 
visualized in Chaucer’s lines. It is true the 
poet describes the inn more by suggestion than 
set delineation, but such hints that it was ‘‘ a 
gentle hostelry,’’ that its rooms and stables 


8 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


were alike spacious, that the food was of the 
best and the wine of the strongest go further 
with the imagination than concrete state- 
ments. fh das! | 
Giving faith for the moment to that theory 
which credits the Canterbury Tales with being 
based on actual experience, and recalling the 
quaint courtyard of the inn as it appeared on 
that distant April day of 1388, it is a pleasant 
exercise of fancy to imagine Chaucer leaning 
over the rail of one of the upper galleries to 
watch the assembling of his nine-and-twenty 
‘“ sondry folk.’’ They are, as J. R. Green has 
said, representatives of every class of English 
society from the noble to the ploughman. 
‘* We see the ‘ verray perfight gentil knight ’ 
in cassock and coat of mail, with his curly- 
headed squire beside him, fresh as the May 
morning, and behind them the brown-faced 
yeoman in his coat and hood of green with a 
mighty bow in his hand. A group of ecclesias- 
tics light up for us the medizval church — the 
brawny hunt-loving monk, whose bridle jingles 
as loud and clear as the chapel bell — the 
wanton friar, first among the beggars and 
harpers of the courtly side — the poor parson, 
threadbare, learned, and devout (‘ Christ’s lore 
and his apostles twelve he taught, and first — 


Be 


i 


A 


GEOFFREY CHAUCER, 


Famous Southwark Inns 9 


he followed it himself ’?) — the summoner with 
his fiery face —the pardoner with his wallet 
‘full of pardons, come from Rome all hot ’— 
the lively prioress with her courtly French lisp, 
her soft little red mouth, and Amor vincit 
omnia graven on her brooch. Learning is 
there in the portly person of the doctor of 
physics, rich with the profits of the pestilence 
— the busy sergeant-of-law, ‘ that ever seemed 
busier than he was ’ — the hollow-cheeked clerk 
of Oxford with his love of books and short 
sharp sentences that disguise a latent tender- 
ness which breaks out at last in the story of 
Griseldis. Around them crowd types of Eng- 
lish industry; the merchant; the franklin in 
whose house ‘ it snowed of meat and drink’; 
the sailor fresh from frays in the Channel; the 
buxom wife of Bath; the broad-shouldered 
miller; the haberdasher, carpenter, weaver, 
dyer, tapestry-maker, each in the livery of his 
craft; and last the honest ploughman who 
would dyke and delve for the poor without 
hire.’’ 

Smilingly as Chaucer may have gazed upon 
this goodly company, his delight at their ar- 
rival paled before the radiant pleasure of mine 
host, for a poet on the lookout for a subject 
ean hardly have welcomed the advent of the 


ot 


10 Inns and Taverns of Old London — 


pilgrims with such an interested anticipation 
of profit as the innkeeper whose rooms they 
were to occupy and whose food and wines they 
were to consume. Henry Bailley was equal to 
the auspicious occasion. 


“‘ Greet chere made our hoste us everichon, 
And to the soper sette he us anon 3- 
And served us with vitaille at the beste. 
Strong was the wyn, and wel to drinke us leste.” 


But the host of the Tabard was more than an 
efficient caterer; he was something of a diplo- 
matist also. Taking advantage of that glow of 
satisfaction which is the psychological effect of 
physical needs generously satisfied, he appears 
to have had no difficulty in getting the pilgrims 
to pay their ‘‘ rekeninges,’’ and having at- 
tained that practical object he rewarded his 
customers with liberal interest for their hard 
cash in the form of unstinted praise of their 
collective merits. In all that year he had not 
seen so merry a company gathered under his 
roof, etc., etc. But of greater moment for 
future generations was his suggestion that, as 
there was no comfort in riding to Canterbury 
dumb as a stone, the pilgrims should beguile 
their journey by telling stories. The sugges- - 
tion was loudly acclaimed and the scheme 


Famous Southwark Inns abs 


unanimously pledged in further copious 
draughts of wine. And then, to ‘‘ reste wente 
echon,’’ until the dawn came again and smiled 
down upon that brave company whose tale- 
telling pilgrimage has since been followed with 
so much delight by countless thousands, 

By the time Stow made his famous survey 
of London, some two centuries later, the Tab- 
ard was rejoicing to the full in the glories cast 
around it by Chaucer’s pen. Stow cites the 
poet’s commendation as its chief title to fame, 
and pauses to explain that the name of the inn 
was ‘‘ so called of the sign, which, as we now 
term it, is of a jacket, or sleeveless coat, whole 
before, open on both sides, with a square collar, 
winged at the shoulders; a stately garment of 
old time, commonly worn of noblemen and 
others, both at home and abroad in the war, 
but then (to wit in the wars) their arms em- 
broidered, or otherwise depict upon them, that 
every man by his coat of arms might be known 
from others.’’ All this heraldic lore did not 
prevent the subsequent change — for a time — 
of the name Tabard to the meaningless name 
of Talbot, a distortion, however, which survives 
only in antiquarian history. 

At the dissolution of the monasteries this 
inn, which up till then had retained its connec- 


12 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


tion with the church through belonging to Hyde 
Abbey, was granted to two brothers named 
Master, and in 1542 its annual rent is fixed at 
nine pounds. An authority on social life in 
England during the middle of Queen Eliza- 
beth’s reign ventures on the following descrip- 
tion of the arrangements of the inn at that 
period. ‘‘ On the ground-floor, looking on to 
the street, was a room called ‘ the darke par- 
lour,’ a hall, and a general reception-room 
called ‘ the parlour.’ This was probably the 
dining-room of the house, as it opened on to 
the kitchen on the same level. Below the dark 
parlour was a cellar. On the first floor, above 
the parlour and the hall, were three rooms — 
‘the middle chamber,’ ‘ the corner chamber,’ 
and ‘ Maister Hussye’s chamber,’ with garrets 
or ‘ cock lofts ’ over them. Over the great par- 
lour was another room. There were also rooms 
called ‘ the Entry Chamber ’ and ‘ the Newe 
chamber,’ ‘ the Flower de Luce ’ and ‘ Mr. Rus- 
sell’s chamber,’ of which the position is not 
specified.’’ 

When, in 1875, the old Tabard, the inn, that 
is, of George Shepherd’s water-colour drawing 
of 1810, was demolished, making way for the 
present somewhat commonplace representative — 
of the ancient hostelry, many protests were 


TABARD INN, SOUTHWARK, IN 1810, 


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Famous Southwark Inns 13 


made on the plea that it was sheer vandalism 
to destroy a building so intimately associated 
with the genius of Chaucer. But the protests . 
were based upon lack of knowledge. Chaucer’s 
inn had disappeared long before. It is some- 
times stated that that building survived until 
the great Southwark fire of 1676, but such as- 
sertions overlook the fact that there is in exist- 
ence a record dated 1634 which speaks of the 
Tabard as having been built of brick six years 
previously upon the old foundation. Here, 
then, is proof that the Tabard of the pilgrims 
was wholly reconstructed in 1628, and even that 
building — faithful copy as it may have been 
of the poet’s inn — was burnt to the ground in 
1676. From the old foundations, however, a 
new Tabard arose, built on the old plan, so 
that the structure which was torn down in 1875 
may have perpetuated the semblance of Chau- 
cer’s inn to modern times. 

Compared with its association with the Can- 
terbury pilgrims, the subsequent history of the 
Tabard is somewhat prosaic. Here a record 
tells how it became the objective of numerous 
carriers from Kent and Sussex, there crops up 
a law report which enshrines the memory of a 
burglary, and elsewhere in reminiscences or 
diary may be found a tribute to the excellence 


14 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


of the inn’s rooms and food and the reasonable- 
ness of the charges. It should not be forgot- 
ten, however, that violent hands have been laid 
on the famous inn for the lofty purposes of 
melodrama. More than sixty years ago a play 
entitled ‘‘ Mary White, or the Murder at the 
Old Tabard ’’ thrilled the theatregoer with its 
tragic situations and the terrible perils of the 
heroine. But the tribulations of Mary White 
have left no imprint on English literature. 
Chaucer’s pilgrims have, and so long as the 
mere name of the Tabard survives, its recollec- 
tion will bring in its train a moving picture of - 
that merry and motley company which set out 
for the shrine of A Becket so many generations 
ago. | 

Poetic license bestows upon another notable 
Southwark inn, the Bear at Bridge-foot, an 
antiquity far eclipsing that of the Tabard. In 
a poem printed in 1691, descriptive of ‘‘ The 
Last Search after Claret in Southwark,’’ the 
heroes of the verse are depicted as eventually 
finding their way to 


“The Bear, which we soon understood 
Was the first house in Southwark built after the flood.” 


To describe the inn as ‘‘ the first house in 
Southwark ’’ might have been accurate for — 


Famous Southwark Inns 15 


those callers who approached it over London 
Bridge, but in actual chronology the proud dis- 
tinction of dating from post-deluge days has 
really to give place to the much more recent 
year of 1319. There is preserved among the 
archives of the city of London a tavern lease 
of that date which belongs without doubt to the 
history of this hostelry, for it refers to the inn 
which Thomas Drinkwater had ‘‘ recently built 
at the head of London Bridge.’’? This Thomas 
Drinkwater was a taverner of London, and the 
document in question sets forth how he had 
granted the lease of the Bear to one James 
Beauflur, who agrees to purchase all his wines 
from the inappropriately named Drinkwater, 
who, on his part, was to furnish his tenant with 
such necessaries as silver mugs, wooden ha- 
naps, curtains, cloths and other articles. 

A century and a half later the inn figures in 
the accounts of Sir John Howard, that warlike 
‘< Jacke of Norfolk’’ who became the first 
Duke of Norfolk in the Howard family and 
fatally attested his loyalty to his king on Bos- 
worth Field. From that time onward casual 
references to the Bear are numerous. It was 
probably the best-known inn of Southwark, for 
its enviable position at the foot of London 
Bridge made it conspicuous to all entering or 


16 Inns and Taverns of Old London 
a | 


leaving the city. Its attractions were enhanced 
by the fact that archery could be practised in 
its grounds, and that within those same grounds 
was the Thames-side landing stage from 
whence the tilt-boats started for Greenwich and 
Gravesend. It was the opportunity for shoot- 
ing at the target which helped to lure Sir John 
Howard to the Bear, but as he sampled the 
wine of the inn before testing his skill as a 
marksman, he found himself the poorer by the 
twenty-pence with which he had backed his own 
prowess. Under date 1633 there is an inter- 
esting reference which sets forth that, although 
orders had been given to have all the back- 
doors to taverns on the Thames closed up, ow- 
ing to the fact that wrong-doers found them: 
convenient in evading the officers of the law, an 
exception was made in the case of the Bear 
owing to the fact that it was the starting-place 
for Greenwich. 

Evidence in abundance might be cited to 
show that the inn was a favourite meeting 
place with the wits and gallants of the court 
of Charles I and the Restoration. ‘‘ The mad- 
dest of all the land came to bait the Bear,’’ is 
one testimony; ‘‘'I stuffed myself with food 
and tipple till the hoops were ready to burst,”’ 


Siu wha act ies 


BRIDGE-FOOT, SOUTHWARK, 


(Showing the Bear Inn in 1616.) 


Sa 


r 


t 


Famous Southwark Inns 17 


is another. There is one figure, however, of 
the thirties of the seventeenth century which 
arrests the attention. This is Sir John Suck- 
ling, that gifted and ill-fated poet and man of 
fashion of whom it was said that he ‘‘ had the 
peculiar happiness of making everything that 
he did become him.’’ His ready wit, his strik- 
ingly handsome face and person, his wealth and 
generosity, his skill in all fashionable pastimes 
made him a favourite with all. The preferences 
of the man, his delight in the joys of the town 
as compared with the pleasures of secluded 
study in the country, are clearly seen in those 
sprightly lines in which he invited the learned 
John Hales, the ‘‘ walking library,’’ to leave 
Hiton and ‘‘ come to town ’’: 


“There you shall find the wit and wine 
Flowing alike, and both divine: 
Dishes, with names not known in books, 
And less among the college-cooks ; 
With sauce so pregnant, that you need 
Not stay till hunger bids you feed. 
The sweat of learned Jonson’s brain, 
And gentle Shakespeare’s eas’er strain, 
A hackney coach conveys you to, 

In spite of all that rain can do: 
And for your eighteenpence you sit 
The lord and judge of all fresh wit.” 


18 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


Nor was it in verse alone that Suckling cele- 
brated the praises of wine. Among the scanty 
remains of his prose there is that lively sally, 
written at the Bear, and entitled: ‘‘ The Wine- 
drinkers to the Water-drinkers.’’ After mock- 
ingly commiserating with the teetotalers over 
the sad plight into which their habits had 
brought them, the address continues: ‘‘ We 
have had divers meetings at the Bear at the 
Bridge-foot, and now at length have resolved 
to despatch to you one of our cabinet council, 
Colonel Young, with some slight forces of 
canary, and some few of sherry, which no doubt 
will stand you in good stead, if they do not 
mutiny and grow too headstrong for their com- 
mander. Him Captain Puff of Barton shall 
follow with all expedition, with two or three 
regiments of claret; Monsieur de Granville, 
commonly called Lieutenant Strutt, shall lead 
up the rear of Rhenish and white. These suc- 
cours, thus timely sent, we are confident will 
be sufficient to hold the enemy in play, and, till 
we hear from you again, we shall not think of 
a fresh supply. . . . Given under our hand at 
the Bear, this fourth of July.’’ 

Somewhere about the date when this drollery — 
was penned there happened at the Bear an inci- ~ 
dent which might have furnished the water- 


Famous Southwark Inns 19. 


drinkers with an effective retort on their satir- 
ist. The Karl of Buccleugh, just returned from 
military service abroad, on his way into Lon- 
- don, halted at the Bear to quaff a glass of sack 
with a friend. A few minutes later he put off 
in a boat for the further shore of the Thames, 
but ere the craft had gone many yards from 
land the earl exclaimed, ‘‘ I am deadly sick, row 
back; Lord have mercy upon me!’’ ‘Those 
were his last words, for he died that night. 
Another picturesque figure of the seven- 
teenth century is among the shades that haunt 
the memory of the Bear, Samuel Pepys, that 
irrepressible gadabout who was more inti- 
mately acquainted with the inns and taverns of 
London than any man of his time. That 
Thames-side hostelry was evidently a favourite 
resort of the diarist. On both occasions of his 
visits to Southwark Fair he made the inn his 
base of operations as it were, especially in 1668 
when the puppet-show of Whittington seemed 
‘¢ pretty to see,’’ though he could not resist the 
reflection ‘‘ how that idle thing do work upon 
people that see it, and even myself too! ”’ 
Pepys had other excitements that day. He 
was so mightily taken with Jacob Hall’s danc- 
ing on the ropes that on meeting that worthy 
at a tavern he presented him with a bottle of 


20 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


wine. Having done justice to all the sights of 
the fair, he returned to the Bear, where his 
waterman awaited him with the gold and other 
things to the value of forty pounds which the 
prudent diarist had left in his charge at the inn 
‘< for fear of my pockets being cut.’’ 

Pepys himself incidentally explains why he 
had so friendly a regard for the Bridge-foot 
tavern. ‘‘ Going through bridge by water,’’ he 
writes, ‘‘ my waterman told me how the mis- 
tress of the Beare tavern, at the bridge-foot, 
did lately fling herself into the Thames, and 
drowned herself; which did trouble me the 
more, when they tell me it was she that did live 
at the White Horse tavern in Lumbard Street, 
which was a most beautiful woman, as most I 
have seen.’’ 

Yet another fair woman, Frances Stuart, one 
of the greatest beauties of the court of Charles 
IT, is linked with the history of the Beare. Sad 
as was the havoc she wrought in the heart of 
the susceptible Pepys, who is ever torn be- 
tween admiration of her loveliness and mock- 
reprobation of her equivocal] position at court, 
Frances Stuart created still deeper passions in 
men more highly placed than he. Apart from 
her royal lover, there were two nobles, the | 
Dukes of York and Richmond who contended 


Famous Southwark Inns 21 


for her hand, with the result of victory finally 
resting with the latter. But the match had to 
be a runaway one. The king was in no mood to 
part with his favourite, and so the lovers ar-. 
ranged a meeting at the Bear, where a coach 
was in waiting to spirit them away into Kent. 
No wonder Charles was offended, especially 
when the lady sent him back his presents. 

Nearly a century and a half has passed since 
the Bear finally closed its doors. All through 
the lively years of the Restoration it main- 
tained its reputation as a house of good cheer 
and a wholly desirable rendezvous, and it fig- 
ures not inconspicuously in the social life of 
London down to 1761. By that time the ever- 
increasing traffic over the Thames bridge had 
made the enlargement of that structure a neces- 
sity, and the Bear was among the buildings 
which had to be demolished. 

Further south in the High street, and oppo- 
site the house in which John Harvard, the 
founder of America’s oldest university, was 
born, stood the Boar’s Head, an inn which was 
once the property of Sir Fastolfe, and was by 
him bequeathed through a friend to Magdalen 
College, Oxford. This must not be confused 
with the Boar’s Head of Shakespeare, which 
stood in Eastcheap on the other side of the 


22 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


river, though it is a remarkable coincidence 
that it was in the latter inn the dramatist laid 
the scene of Prince Hal’s merrymaking with 
the Sir John Falstaff we all know. The earliest 
reference to the Southwark Boar’s Head occurs 
in the Paston Letters under date 1459. This 
is an epistle from a servant of Fastolfe to John 
Paston, asking him to remind his master that 
he had promised him he should be made host 
of the Boar’s Head, but whether he ever at- 
tained to that desired position there is no eyvi- 
dence to show. The inn makes but little figure 
in history; by 1720 it had dwindled to a mere 
courtyard, and in 1830 the last remnants were 
cleared away. | 

Inevitably, however, the fact that the Boar’s 
Head was the property of Sir John Fastolfe 
prompts the question, what relation had he to 
the Sir John Falstaff of Shakespeare’s plays? 
This has been a topic of large discussion for 
many years. There are so many touches of 
character and definite incidents which apply in 
common to the two knights that the poet has 
been assumed to have had the historic Fastolfe 
ever in view when drawing the portrait of his 
Falstaff. The historian Fuller assumed this 
to have been the case, for he complains that the 
‘‘ stage have been overbold ’’. in dealing with 


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Famous: Southwark Inns 23 


Fastolfe’s memory. Sidney Lee, however, 
sums up the case thus: ‘‘ Shakespeare was pos- 
sibly under the misapprehension, based on the 
episode of cowardice reported in ‘ Henry VI,’ 
that the military exploits of the historical Sir 
John Fastolfe sufficiently resembled those of 
his own riotous knight to justify the employ- 
ment of a corrupted version of his name. It 
is of course untrue that Fastolfe was ever the 
intimate associate of Henry V when Prince of 
Wales, who was not his junior by more than 
ten years, or that he was an impecunious spend- 
thrift and gray-haired debauchee. The histor- 
ical Fastolfe was in private life an expert man 
of business, who was indulgent neither to him- 
self nor his friends. He was nothing of a 
jester, and was, in spite of all imputations to 
the contrary, a capable and brave soldier.”’ 
Sad as has been the havoc wrought by time 
and the hand of man among the hostelries of 
Southwark, a considerable portion of one still 
survives in its actual seventeenth century guise. 
This is the George Inn, which is slightly nearer 
London Bridge than the Tabard. To catch a 
peep of its old-world aspect, with its quaint 
gallery and other indubitable tokens of a dis- 
tant past, gives the pilgrim a pleasant shock. 
It is such a contrast to the ugly modern struc- 


24 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


tures which impose themselves on the public 
as ‘‘ Ye Olde’’ this and ‘‘ Ye Olde ’’ that. 
Here at any rate is a veritable survival. Nor 
does it matter that the George has made little 
figure in history; there is a whole world of 
satisfaction in the thought that it has changed 
but little since it was built in 1672. Its name 
is older than its structure. Stow included the 
George among the ‘‘ many fair inns ’”’ he saw 
in Southwark in 1598, a fact which deals a cruel 
blow to that crude theory which declares inns 
were so named after the royal Georges of Great 
Britain. | 

Among the numerous other inns which once 
lined the High Street of Southwark there is but 
one which has claims upon the attention on 
the score of historic and literary interest. This 
is the White Hart, which was doubtless an old 
establishment at the date, 1406, of its first men- 
tion in historical records. Forty-four years 
later, that is in 1450, the inn gained its most 
notable association by being made the head- 
quarters of Jack Cade at the time of his famous 
insurrection. Modern research has shown that 
this rebellion was a much more serious matter 
than the older historians were aware of, but 
the most careful investigation into Cade’s ca- 
reer has failed to elicit any particulars of note 


*NNI GOuUOwD 


Famous Southwark Inns 25 


prior to a year before the rising took place. 
The year and place of his birth are unknown, 
but twelve months before he appears in history 
he was obliged to flee the realm and take refuge 
in France owing to his having murdered a 
woman who was with child. He served for a 
time in the French army, then returned under 
an assumed name and settled in Kent, which 
was the centre of discontent against Henry VI. 
As the one hope of reform lay in an appeal to 
arms, the discontent broke into open revolt. 
‘<The rising spread from Kent over Surrey 
and Sussex. Everywhere it was general and 
organized —a military levy of the yeomen of 
the three shires.’’ It was not of the people 
alone, for more than a hundred esquires and 
gentlemen threw in their lot with the rebels; 
but how it came about that Jack Cade attained 
the leadership is a profound mystery. Leader, 
however, he was, and when he, with his twenty 
thousand men, took possession of Southwark as 
the most desirable base from which to threaten 
the city of London, he elected the White Hart 
for his own quarters. This was on the first of 
July, 1450, and for the next few of those mid- 
summer days the inn was the scene of many 
stirring and tragic events. Daily, Cade at the 
head of his troops crossed the bridge into the 


26 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


city, and on one of those excursions he caused 
the seizure and beheadal of the hated Lord Say. 
Daily, too, there was constant coming and going 
at the White Hart of Cade’s emissaries. At 
length, however, the citizens of London, stung 
into action by the robberies and other outrages 
of the rebels, occupied the bridge in force. A 
stubborn struggle ensued, but Cade and his men 
were finally beaten off. The amnesty which 
followed led to a conference at which terms 
were arranged and a general pardon granted. 
That for Cade, however, as it was made out 
in his assumed name of Mortimer, was invalid, 
and on the discovery being made he seized a 
large quantity of booty and fled. Not many 
days later he was run to earth, wounded in be- 
ing captured, and died as he was being brought 
back to London. His naked body was identified 
by the hostess of the White Hart, who was 
probably relieved to gaze upon so certain an 
indication that she would be able to devote her- 
self once more to the entertainment of less 
troublesome guests. 

For all the speedy ending of his ambitions, 
Cade is assured of immortality so long as the 
pages of Shakespeare endure. The rebel is a 
stirring figure in the Second Part of King — 
Henry VI and as an orator of the mob reaches 


Famous Southwark Inns 27 


his greatest flights of eloquence in that speech 
which perpetuates the name of his headquarters 
at Southwark. ‘‘ Hath my sword therefore 
broke through London gates, that you should 
leave me at the White Hart in Southwark? ’’ 
But English literature was not done with the 
old inn. Many changes were to pass over its 
head during the nearly four centuries which 
elapsed ere it was touched once more by the 
pen of genius, changes wrought by the havoc of 
fire and the attritions of the hand of time. 
When those years had fled a figure was to be 
seen in its courtyard to become better known 
to and better beloved by countless thousands 
than the rebel leader of the fifteenth century. 
‘¢ In the Borough,’’ wrote the creator of that 
figure, ‘‘ there still remain some half dozen old 
inns, which have preserved their external fea- 
tures unchanged, and which have escaped alike 
the rage for public improvement and the en- 
croachments of private speculation. Great, 
rambling, queer old places they are, with gal- 
leries, and passages, and staircases, wide 
enough and antiquated enough to furnish mate- 
rials for a hundred ghost stories. . . . It was in 
the yard of one of these inns — of no less cele- 
brated a one than the White Hart — that a man 
was busily employed in brushing the dirt off 


28 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


a pair of boots, early on the morning succeed- 
ing the events narrated in the last chapter. He 
was habited in a coarse-striped waistcoat, with 
black calico sleeves, and blue glass buttons; 
drab breeches and leggings. <A bright red 
handkerchief was wound in a very loose and 
unstudied style round his neck, and an old white — 
hat was carelessly thrown on one side of his 
head. There were two rows of boots before 
him, one cleaned and the other dirty, and at 
every addition he made to the clean row, he 
paused from his work, and contemplated its 
results with evident satisfaction.’’ | 
Who does not recognize Sam Weller, making 
his first appearance in ‘‘ The Posthumous 
Papers of the Pickwick Club ’’? And who has 
not revelled in the lively scene in the White 
Hart when Mr. Pickwick and his friends ar- 
rived in the nick of time to prevent the ancient 
but still sentimental Rachael from becoming 
Mrs. Jingle? It is not difficult to understand 
why that particular instalment of ‘‘ Pickwick ”’ 
was the turning-point of the book’s fortunes. 
Prior to the advent of Sam in the courtyard of 
the White Hart the public had shown but a 
moderate interest in the new venture of 
‘‘ Boz,’’ but from that event onward the sales 
of the succeeding parts were ever on the in- 


aaa “a 
EDS 


WHITE HART INN, SOUTHWARK, 


Famous Southwark Inns 29 


crease. Sam and the White Hart, then, had 
much to do with the career of Dickens, for if 
‘* Pickwick ’’ had failed it is more than prob- 
able that he would have abandoned literature 
as a profession. | 

When Dickens wrote, the White Hart was 
still in existence. It is so no longer. Till late 
in the last century this hostelry was spared the 
fate which had overtaken so many Southwark 
taverns, even though, in place of the nobles it 
had sheltered, its customers had become hop- 
merchants, farmers, and others of lower de- 
gree. In 1889, in the month of July, four hun- 
dred and thirty-nine years after it had received 
Jack Cade under its roof, the last timbers of 
the old inn were levelled to the ground. 


CHAPTER II 
INNS AND TAVERNS EAST OF ST. PAUL’S 


BosweE tu relates how, in one of his numerous 
communicative moods, he informed Dr. John- 
son of the existence of a club at ‘‘ the Boar’s 
Head in Eastcheap, the very tavern where 
Falstaff and his joyous companions met; the 
members of which all assume Shakespeare’s 
characters. One is Falstaff, another Prince 
Henry, another Bardolph, and so on.’’ If the 
assiduous little Scotsman entertained the idea 
of joining the club, a matter on which he does 
not throw any light, Johnson’s rejoinder was 
sufficient to deter him from doing so. ‘‘ Don’t 
be of it, Sir. Now that you have a name you 
must be careful to avoid many things not bad 
in themselves, but which will lessen your char- 
acter.’’ 

Whether Johnson’s remark was prompted by 
an intimate knowledge of the type of person 
frequenting the Boar’s Head in his day cannot 
be decided, but there are ample grounds for 
thinking that the patrons of that inn were gen- 

30 


Inns and Taverns East of St. Paul’s 31 


erally of a somewhat boisterous kind. That, 
perhaps, is partly Shakespeare’s fault. Prior 
to his making it the scene of the mad revelry of 
Prince Hal and his none too choice companions, 
the history of the Boar’s Head, so far as we 


know it, was sedately respectable. One of the) 
earliest references to its existence is in a lease / 
dated 1537, some sixty years before the first | 
part of Henry IV was entered in the Station- 


ers’ Register. Some half century later, that 
is in 1588, the inn was kept by one Thomas 
Wright, whose son came into a ‘‘ good inherit- 
ance,’’ was made clerk of the King’s Stable, 
and a knight, and was ‘‘ a very discreet and 
honest gentleman.’’ — 

But Shakespeare’s pen dispelled any atmos- 
phere of respectability which lingered around 
the Boar’s Head. From the time when he made } 
it the meeting-place of the mad-cap Prince of | 
Wales and his roistering followers, down to the | 


day of Goldsmith’s reverie under its roof, the | 
inn has dwelt in the imagination at least as the | 


! 


rendezvous of hard drinkers and practical jok- | 


ers. How could it be otherwise after the limn- 
ing of such a scene as that described in Henry 
IV? That was sufficient to dedicate the inn to 
conviviality for ever. 

How sharply the picture shapes itself as the 


32 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


hurrying dialogue is read! The key-note of 
merriment is struck by the Prince himself as he 
implores the aid of Poins to help him laugh at 
the excellent trick he has just played on the 
boastful but craven Falstaff, and the bustle and 
hilarity of the scene never flags for a moment. 
Even Francis, the drawer, whose vocabulary is 
limited to ‘‘ Anon, anon, sir ’’ — the fellow that 
had ‘‘ fewer words than a parrot, and yet the 
son of a woman ’’— and the host himself, as 
perplexed as his servant when two customers 
call at once, contribute to the movement of the 
episode in its earlier stages. But the pace is 
increased furiously when the burly Falstaff, 
scant of breath indeed, bustles hurriedly in 
proclaiming in one breath his scorn of cowards 
and his urgent need of a cup of sack. We all 
know the boastful story he told, how he and 
his three companions had been set upon and 
robbed by a hundred men, how he himself — as 
witness his sword ‘‘ packed like a hand-saw ”’ 
—had kept at bay and put to flight now two, 
anon four, and then seven, and finally eleven 
of his assailants. We all can see, too, the rogu- 
ish twinkle in Prince Hal’s eyes as the brag- 
gart knight embellishes his lying tale with © 
every fresh sentence, and are as nonplussed as 
he when, the plot discovered, Falstaff finds a 


\ 


_Inns and Taverns East of St. Paul’s af 


way to fale ered for his etedice Who 
would not forgive so cajoling a vaunter? 

It was later in this scene, be it remembered, 
that the portly knight was found fast asleep: 
behind the arras, ‘‘ snorting like a horse,’’ and 
had his pockets searched to the discovery of 
that tavern bill — not paid we may be sure — 
which set forth an expenditure on the staff of 
hfe immensely disproportionate to that on 
drink, and elicited the famous ejaculation — 
‘< But one half-pennyworth of bread to this in- 
tolerable deal of sack! ’’ 

But Shakespeare had not finished with the 
Boar’s Head. More coarse and less merry, but 
not less vivid, is that other scene wherein the 
shrill-tongued Doll Tearsheet and the peace- 
making Dame Quickly figure. And it is of a 
special and private room in the Boar’s Head 
we think as we listen to Dame Quickly’s tale of 
how the amorous Falstaff made love to her 
with his hand upon ‘‘ a parcel-gilt goblet,’’ and 
followed up the declaration with a kiss and a 
request for thirty shillings. 

For Shakespeare’s sake, then, the Boar’s 
Head is elect into that small circle of inns which 
are immortal in the annals of literature. But, 
like Chaucer’s Tabard, no stone of it 1s left. 
Boswell made a mistake, and so did Goldsmith 


34 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


after him, in thinking that the Boar’s Head of 
the eighteenth century was the Boar’s Head of 
Shakespeare’s day. They both forgot the great 
Fire of London. That disastrous conflagration 
of 1666 swept away every vestige of the old inn. 
Upon its foundation, however, another Boar’s 
Head arose, the sign of which, cut in stone and 
dated 1668, is among the treasures of the Guild- 
hall Museum. This was the building in which 
Boswell’s club met, and it was under its roof 
Goldsmith penned his famous reverie. 

As was to be expected of that social soul, the 
character of Falstaff gave Goldsmith more con- 
solation than the most studied efforts of wis- 
dom: ‘‘I here behold,’’ he continues, ‘‘ an 
agreeable old fellow forgetting age, and show- 
ing me the way to be young at sixty-five. Sure 
I am well able to be as merry, though not so 
comical, as he. Is it not in my power to have, 
though not so much wit, at least as much vivac- 
ity? — Age, care, wisdom, reflection, begone — 
I give you to the winds! Let’s have t’other 
bottle: Here’s to the memory of Shakespeare, 
Falstaff, and all the merry men of East- 
cheap! ’’ 

With such zest did Goldsmith enter into his 
night out at the Boar’s Head that when the 
midnight hour arrived he discovered all his 


OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 


Inns and Taverns East of St. Paul’s 35 


companions had stolen away, leaving him — 
still in high spirits — with the landlord as his 
sole companion. Then the mood of reverie be- 
gan to work. The very room helped to trans-. 
port him back through the centuries; the oak 
floor, the gothic windows, the ponderous chim- 
ney-piece,— all were reminders of the past. 
But the prosaic landlord was an obstacle to the 
complete working of the spell. At last, how- 
ever, a change came over mine host, or so it 
seemed to the dreaming chronicler. ‘‘ He in- 
sensibly began to alter his appearance; his 
cravat seemed quilled into a ruff, and his 
breeches swelled out into a farlingale. I now 
fancied him changing sexes; and as my eyes 
began to close in slumber, I imagined my fat 
landlord actually converted into as fat a land- 
lady. However, sleep made but few changes in 
my situation: the tavern, the apartment, and 
the table, continued as before: nothing suf- 
fered mutation but my host, who was fairly 
altered into a gentlewoman, whom I knew to be 
Dame Quickly, mistress of this tavern in the 
days of Sir John; and the liquor we were 
drinking seemed converted into sack and 
sugar.’’ | 
Such an opportunity of interviewing an ac- 
quaintance of Falstaff was not to be lost, and 


36 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


to the credit of Dame Quickly be it said that 
she was far more communicative than some 
moderns are under the questioning ordeal. But 
it was no wonder she was loquacious: had she 
not been ordered by Pluto to keep a record of 
every transaction at the Boar’s Head, and in 
the discharge of that duty compiled three hun- 
dred tomes? Some may subscribe to the opin- 
ion that Dame Quickly was indiscreet as well 
as loquacious; certainly she did not spare the 
reputations of some who had dwelt under that 
ancient roof. The sum of the matter, however, 
was that since the execution of that hostess who 
was accused of witchcraft the Boar’s Head 
‘‘ underwent several revolutions, according to 
the spirit of the times, or the disposition of the 
reigning monarch. It was this day a brothel, 
and the next a conventicle for enthusiasts. It 
was one year noted for harbouring Whigs, and 
the next infamous for a retreat to Tories. 
Some years ago it was in high vogue, but at 
present it seems declining.’’ | 

One other son of genius was to add to the 
fame of the Boar’s Head, the American Gold- 
smith, that is, the gentle Washington Irving. 
Of course Shakespeare was the moving spirit 
once more. While turning over the pages of - 
Henry IV Irving was seized with a sudden in- 


Inns and Taverns East of St. Paul’s 37 


spiration: ‘‘ I will make a pilgrimage to East- 
cheap, and see if the old Boar’s Head tavern 
still exists.’’ But it was too late. The only 
relic of the ancient abode of Dame Quickly was . 
the stone boar’s head, built into walls reared 
where the inn once stood. Nothing daunted, 
however, Irving explored the neighbourhood, 
and was rewarded, as he thought, by running 
to earth Dame Quickly’s ‘‘ parcel-gilt goblet ’’ 
in a tavern near by. He had one other ‘‘ find.”’ 
In the old graveyard of St. Michael’s, which no 
longer exists, he discovered, so he avers, the 
tombstone of one Robert Preston who, like the 
Francis of ‘‘ Anon, anon, sir,’’ was a drawer at 
the Boar’s Head, and quotes from that tomb- 
stone the following admonitory epitaph: 


“ Bacchus, to give the toping world surprise, 
Produced one sober son, and here he lies. 
Though rear’d among full hogsheads, he defied 
The charms of wine, and every one beside. 

O reader, if to justice thou’rt inclined, 

Keep honest Preston daily in thy mind. 

He drew good wine, took care to fill his pots, 
Had sundry virtues that excused his faults. 
You that on Bacchus have the like dependence, 
Pray copy Bob, in measure and attendance.” 


Small as was the reward of Irving’s quest, 
a still more barren result would ensue on a 


38 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


modern pilgrimage to the Boar’s Head. It was 
still a tavern in 1785, for a chronicler of that 
date described it as having on each side of the 
doorway ‘‘ a vine branch, carved in wood, ris- 
ing more than three feet from the ground, 
loaded with leaves and clusters; and on the top 
of each a little Falstaff, eight inches high, in 
the dress of his day.’’ But Dame Quickly’s 
forecast of declining fortune moved on to its 
fulfilment. In the last stages of its existence 
the building was divided into two, while the 
carved boar’s head which Irving: saw still re- 
mained as the one sign of its departed glories. 
Finally came the resolve to widen the approach 
to London Bridge from the city side, and the 
carrying out of that resolve involved the sweep- 
ing away of the Boar’s Head. This was in 
1831, and, as has been said, the only relic of the 
ancient tavern is that carved sign in the Guild- 
hall Museum. But the curious in such matters 
may be interested to know that the statue of 
King William marks approximately the spot of 
ground where hover the immortal memories of 
Shakespeare, and Goldsmith, and Irving. 
Within easy distance of Eastcheap, in Upper 
Thames Street, which skirts the river bank, 
there stood, in Shakespeare’s day and much 
later, a tavern bearing the curious name of the 


Inns and Taverns East of St. Paul’s 39 


Three Cranes in the Vintry. John Stow, that 
zealous topographer to whom the historians of 
London owe so large a debt, helps to explain 
the mystery. The vintry, he tells us, was that 
part of the Thames bank where ‘‘ the merchants 
of Bordeaux craned their wines out of lighters 
and other vessels, and there landed and made 
sale of them.’’ He also adds that the Three 
Cranes’ lane was ‘‘ so called not only of a sign 
of three cranes at a tavern door, but rather of 
three strong cranes of timber placed on the 
Vintry wharf by the Thames side, to crane up 
wines there.’’ Earlier than the seventeenth 
century, however, it would seem that one crane 
had to suffice for the needs of ‘‘ the merchants 
of Bordeaux,’’ and then the tavern was known 
simply as the Crane. Two references, dated re- 
spectively 1552 and 1554, speak of the sign in 
the singular. Twenty years later, however, the 
one had become three. 

Ben Jonson, whose knowledge of London 
inns and taverns was second only to that of 
Pepys, evidently numbered the Three Cranes 
in the Vintry among his houses of call. Of two 
of his allusions to the house one is derogatory 
of the wit of its patrons, the other laudatory of 
the readiness of its service. ‘‘ A pox o’ these 
pretenders to wit!’’ runs the first passage. 


40 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


‘‘Your Three Cranes, Mitre, and Mermaid 
men! Not a corn of true salt, not a grain of 
right mustard amongst them all.’’ And here 
is the other side of the shield, credited to Ini- 
quity in ‘‘ The Devil is an Ass ’’?: — 


“ Nay, boy, I will bring thee to the bawds and roysters 

At Billingsgate, feasting with claret-wine and oysters; 

From thence shoot the Bridge, child, to the Cranes in 
the Vintry, 

And see there the gimblets how they make their entry.” 


Of course Pepys was acquainted with the 
house. He had, indeed, a savage memory of 
one meal under its roof. It was all owing to 
the marrying proclivities of his uncle Fenner. 
Bereft of his wife on the last day of August, 
that easy-going worthy, less than two months 
later, was discovered by his nephew in an ale- 
house, ‘‘ very jolly and youthsome, and as one 
that I believe will in a little time get him a 
wife.’’ Pepys’ anticipation was speedily real- 
ized. Uncle Fenner had indulged himself with 
a new partner by the middle of January, and 
must needs give a feast to celebrate the event. 
And this is Pepys’ frank record of the occa- 
sion: ‘‘ By invitation to my uncle Fenner’s, 
where I found his new wife, a pitiful, old, ugly, 
ill-bred woman, in a hatt, a midwife. Here 


Inns and Taverns East of St. Paul’s 41 


SS a a Bo 
were many of his, and as many of her relatives, 
sorry, mean people; and after choosing our 
gloves, we all went over to the Three Cranes 
taverne, and (although the best room of the 
house) in such a narrow dogg-hole we were 
crammed, (and I believe we were near forty) 
that it made me loath my company and victuals; 
and a sorry, poor dinner it was.’’ 

In justice to the Three Cranes, Pepys must 
not be allowed to have the last word. That 
particular dinner, no doubt, owed a good deal 
of its defects to the atmosphere and the com- 
pany amid which it was served. At any rate, 
the host of the Black Bear at Cumnor — he of 
Sir Walter Scott’s ‘‘ Kenilworth ’’— was 
never weary of praising the Three Cranes, 
‘‘ the most topping tavern in London ”’ as he 
emphatically declared. 

No one can glance even casually over a list 
of tavern signs without observing how fre- 
quently the numeral ‘‘ three ’’ is used. Vari- 
ous explanations have been offered for the pro- 
pensity of mankind to use that number, one 
deriving the habit from the fact that primitive 
man divided the universe into three regions, 
heaven, earth, and water. Pythagoras, it will 
be remembered, called three the perfect num- 
ber; Jove is depicted with three-forked light- 


42 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


ning; Neptune bears a trident; Pluto has his 
three-headed dog. Again, there are three 
Fates, three Furies, three Graces and three 
Muses. It is natural, then, to find the numeral 
so often employed in the signs of inns and 
taverns. Thus we have the Three Angels, the 
Three Crowns, the Three Compasses, the Three 
Cups, the Three Horseshoes, the Three Tuns, 
the Three Nuns, and many more. In the city 
of London proper the Three Cups was a favour- 
ite sign and the Three Tuns was hardly less 
popular. There were also several Three Nuns, 
the most famous of which was situated in Ald- 
gate High Street, where its modern representa- 
tive still stands. In the bygone years it was a 
noted coaching inn and enjoyed an enviable 
reputation for the rare quality of its punch. 
Defoe has a brief reference to the house in 
his ‘‘ A Journal of the Plague Year.’’ 

An attempt to enumerate the King’s Head 
taverns of London would be an endless task. 
It must not be overlooked, however, that one of 
the most notable houses so named stood in Fen- 
church Street, on the site now occupied by the 
London Tavern. This is the tavern for which 
a notable historic association is claimed. The 
tradition has it that when the Princess Eliza- 
beth, the ‘‘ Good Queen Bess ”’ of after days, 


Inns and Taverns East of St. Paul’s 43 


was released from the Tower of London on 
May 19th, 1554, she went first to a neighbour- 
ing church to offer thanks for her deliverance, 
and then proceeded to the King’s Head to en- 
joy a somewhat plebeian dinner of boiled pork 
and pease-pudding. This legend seems to ig- 
nore the fact that the freedom of the Princess 
was comparative only; that she was at that 
time merely removed from one prison to an- 
other; and that the record of her movements 
on that day speaks of her taking barge at the 
Tower wharf and going direct to Richmond en 
route for Woodstock. However, the metal dish 
and cover which were used in serving that 
homely meal of boiled pork and pease-pudding 
are still shown, and what can the stickler for 
historical accuracy do in the face of such stub- 
born evidence? 

Two other Fenchurch Street taverns have 
wholly disappeared. One of these, the Ele- 
phant, was wont to claim a somewhat dubious 
association with Hogarth. The artist is cred- 
ited with once lodging under the Elephant’s 
roof and with embellishing the walls of the tap- 
room with pictures in payment for a long over- 
due bill. The subjects were said to have in- 
cluded the first study for the picture which af- 
terwards became famous under the title of 


44 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


‘*¢ Modern Midnight Conversation,’’ but treated 
in a much broader manner than is shown in the 
well-known print. When the building was 
pulled down in 1826 a heated controversy arose 
concerning these Hogarth pictures, which were 
removed from the walls and exhibited in a 
Pall Mall gallery. The verdict of experts was 
given against their being the work of the mas- 
ter for whom they were claimed. The other 
tavern was one of the many mitres to be found 
in London during the seventeenth century. 
The host, Dan Rawlinson, was so staunch a 
royalist that when Charles I was executed he 
hung his sign in mourning, an action which 
naturally caused him to be regarded with sus- 
picion by the Cromwell party, but ‘‘ endeared 
him so much to the churchmen that he throve 
amain and got a good estate.’’ Something of 
that prosperity was due no doubt to the excel- 
lent ‘‘ venison-pasty ’’ of which Pepys was so 
fond. But Dan Rawlinson of the Mitre had his 
reverses as well as his successes. During the 
dreaded Plague of London Pepys met an ac- 
quaintance in Fenchurch Street who called his 
attention to the fact that Mr. Rawlinson’s door 
was shut up. ‘‘ Why,’’ continued his inform- 
ant, ‘‘ after all this sickness, and himself — 


Inns and Taverns East of St. Paul’s 45 


spending all the last year in the country, one 
of his men is now dead of the plague, and his 
wife and one of his maids sick, and himself 
shut up.’?’ Mrs. Rawlinson died a day or two 
later and the maid quickly followed her mis- 
tress to the grave. A year later the Mitre was 
destroyed in the Great Fire of London and 
Pepys met its much-tried owner shortly after 
‘“ looking over his ruins.’’ But the tavern was 
rebuilt on a more spacious scale, and Isaac 
Fuller was commissioned to adorn its walls 
with paintings. This was the artist whose 
fondness of tavern life prevented him from be- 
coming a great painter. The commission at 
the Mitre was no doubt much to his liking, and 
Walpole describes in detail the panels with 
which he adorned a great room in that house. 
‘‘ The figures were as large as life: a Venus, 
Satyr, and sleeping Cupid; a boy riding a goat 
and another fallen down, over the chimney: 
this was the best part of the performance, says 
Vertue: Saturn devouring a Child, Mercury, 
Minerva, Diana, Apollo; and Bacchus, Venus, 
and Ceres embracing; a young Silenus fallen 
down, and holding a goblet, into which a boy 
was pouring wine; the Scarons, between the 
windows, and on the ceiling two angels support- 


46 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


(oe non a NN 
ing a mitre, in a large circle.’’ The execution 
of all this must have kept Fuller for quite a 
long time amid his favourite environment. 
One of the lesser known Cock taverns of 
London was still in existence in Leadenhall 
Street during the first quarter of the last cen- 
tury. A drawing of the time shows it to have 
been a picturesque building, the most notable 
feature being that the window lights on the 
first floor extended the entire width of the 
front, the only specimen of the kind then re- 
maining in London. At the time the drawing 
was made that particular room was used as the 
kitchen. From the dress of the boys of the 
carved brackets, supporting the over-hanging 
upper story, it has been inferred that the house 
was originally a charity school. Behind the 
tavern there stood a brick building dated 1627, 
formerly used by the bricklayers’ company, but 
in 1795 devoted to the purposes of a Jewish 
synagogue. As with all the old taverns of this 
sign, the effigy of the bird from which it took 
its name was prominently displayed in front. 
Far more ancient than the Cock is that other 
Leadenhall Street tavern, the Ship and Turtle, 
which is still represented in the thoroughfare. 
The claim is made for this house that it dates 
back to 1377, and for many generations, down, 


HALL STREET 


LEADEN 


p) 


K INN 


Coc 


Inns and Taverns East of St. Paul’s 47 


indeed, to 1835, it had a succession of widows 
‘as hostesses. The modern representative of 
this ancient house prides itself upon the quality 
of its turtle soup and upon the fact that it is the | 
meeting-place of numerous masonic lodges, be- 
sides being in high favour for corporation and 
companies’ livery dinners. 

If the pilgrim now turns his steps toward 
Bishopsgate Street Within —the ‘‘ Within ’’ 
signifying, of course, that that part of the 
thoroughfare was inside the old city wall — he 
will find himself in a neighbourhood where 
many famous inns once stood. Apart from the 
Wrestlers and the Angel which are mentioned 
by Stow, there were the Flower Pot, the White 
Hart, the Four Swans, the Three Nuns, the 
Green Dragon, the Ball, and several more. The 
reason for this crowding together of so many 
hostelries in one street is obvious. It was 
through Bishop’s gate that the farmers of the 
eastern counties came into the city and they 
naturally made their headquarters in the dis- 
trict nearest to the end of their journey. 

For many years the White Hart maintained 
its old-time reputation as a ‘‘ fair inn for the 
receipt of travellers.’? That it was an ancient 
structure is proved by the fact that when it was 
demolished, the date of 1480 was discovered on 


48 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


one of its half-timbered bays. The present up- 
to-date White Hart stands on the site of the 
old inn. 

Far greater interest attaches to the Bull inn, 
even were it only for the fact of its association 
with Thomas Hobson, the Cambridge carrier 
whom Milton made famous. In the closing 
years of the sixteenth century the house ap- 
pears to have had a dubious reputation, for 
when Anthony Bacon came to live in Bishops- 
gate Street in 1594 his mother became exceed- 
ingly anxious on his account, fearing ‘‘ the 
neighbourhood of the Bull Inn.’’ Perhaps, 
however, the distressed mother based her alarm 
on the dangers of play-acting, for the house 
was notable as the scene of many dramatic per- 
formances. That it was the recognized head- 
quarters for Cambridge carriers is shown by ~ 
an allusion, in 1637, which reads: ‘‘ The Blacke 
Bull in Bishopsgate Street, who is still looking 
towards Shoreditch to see if he can spy the 
carriers coming from Cambridge.’’ Hobson, of 
course, was the head of that fraternity. He 
had flourished amazingly since he succeeded to 
his father’s business in the university city, and 
attained that position of independence which 
enabled him to force the rule that each horse 
in his stable was to be hired only in its proper 


Inns and Taverns Fast of St. Paul’s 49 


turn, thus originating the proverb, ‘‘ Hobson’s 
choice,’’ that is, ‘‘ this or none.’’ Despite his 
ever growing wealth and advanced years, Hob- 
son continued his regular journeys to London . 
until the outbreak of the plague caused the au- 
thorities to suspend the carrier service for a 
time. This is the fact upon which Milton seized 
with such humourous effect in his poetical epi- 
taph: 
* Here lies old Hobson. Death hath broke his girt, 

And here, alas! hath laid him in the dirt; 

Or else, the ways being foul, twenty to one 

He’s here stuck in a slough, and overthrown. 

*Twas such a shifter that, if truth were known, 

Death was half glad when he had got him down; 

For he had any time this ten years full 

Dodged with him betwixt Cambridge and The Bull. 

And surely Death could never have prevailed, 

Had not his weekly course of carriage failed ; 

But lately, finding him so long at home, 

And thinking now his journey’s end was come, 

And that he had ta’en up his latest inn, 

In the kind office of a chamberlain, 

Showed him his room where he must lodge that night, 

Pulled off his boots, and took away the light.” 


Among the ‘‘ Familiar Letters ’’ of James 
Howell is a stately epistle addressed ‘‘ To Sir 
Paul Pindar, Knight,’’ who is informed to his 
face that of all the men of his times he is ‘‘ one 


50 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


of the greatest examples of piety and constant 
integrity,’’ and is assured that his correspond- 
ent could see his namesake among the apostles 
saluting and solacing him, and ensuring that his 
works of charity would be as a ‘‘ triumphant 
chariot ’’ to carry him one day to heaven. But 
_Sir Paul Pindar was more than benevolent; he 
was a master in business affairs and no mean 
diplomatist. His commercial aptitude he put 
to profitable use during a fifteen years’ resi- 
dence in Italy; his skill as a negotiator was 
tested and proved by nine years’ service in 
Constantinople as the ambassador of James I 
to Turkey. At the date of his final return to 
England, 1623, the merchant and diplomat was 
an exceedingly wealthy man, well able to meet 
the expense of that fme mansion in Bishopsgate 
Street Without which perpetuated his name 
down to our own day. In its original state Sir 
Paul Pindar’s house, both within and without, 
was equal in splendour and extent to any man- 
sion in London. And, as may be imagined, its 
owner was a person of importance in city and 
court life. One of his possessions was a great 
diamond worth thirty-five thousand pounds, 
which James I used to borrow for state occa- 
sions. The son of that monarch purchased this 
jewel in 1625 for about half its value and suc- 


PAUL PINDAR TAVERN 


Inns and Taverns Kast of St. Paul’s 51 
a A er nee meena 


cessfully deferred payment for even that re- 
duced sum! Sir Paul, indeed, appears to have 
been a complacent lender of his wealth to roy- 
alty and the nobility, so that it is not surpris- 
ing many ‘‘ desperate debts ’’ were owing him 
on his death. A century and a quarter after 
that event, that is in 1787, the splendid man- 
sion of the wealthy merchant and diplomat had 
become a tavern under the names of its builder, 
and continued in that capacity until 1890, when 
railway extension made its demolition neces- 
sary. But the beautifully carved front is still 
preserved in the South Kensington Museum. 
While there may at times be good reason for 
doubting the claims made as to the antiquity 
of some London taverns, there can be none for 
questioning the ripe old age to which the 
Pope’s Head in Cornhill attained. This is one 
of the few taverns which Stow deals with at 
length. He describes it as being ‘‘ strongly 
built of stone,’’ and favours the opinion that it 
was at one time the palace of King John. He 
tells, too, how in his day wine was sold there at 
a penny the pint and bread provided free. It 
was destroyed in the Great Fire, but rebuilt 
shortly after. Pepys knew both the old and 
the new house. In the former he is said to have 
drunk his first ‘‘ dish of tea,’’ and he certainly 


pa OF |. Lis. 


52 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


enjoyed many a meal under its roof, notably on 
that occasion when, with Sir W. Penn and Mrs. 
Pepys, he ‘‘ eat cakes and other fine things.”’ 
Another, not so pleasant, memory is associated 
with the Pope’s Head. Two actors figured in 
the episode, James Quin and William Bowen, 
between whom, especially on the side of the 
latter, strong professional jealousy existed. 
Bowen, a low comedian of ‘‘ some talent and 
more conceit,’’ taunted Quin with being tame 
in a certain role, and Quin retorted in kind, de- 
claring that Bowen’s impersonation of a char- 
acter in ‘‘ The Libertine ’’ was much inferior 
to that of another actor. Bowen seems to have 
had an ill-balanced mind; he was so affected 
by Jeremy Collier’s ‘‘ Short View ’’ that he 
left the stage and opened a cane shop in Hol- 
born, thinking ‘‘ a shopkeeper’s life was the 
readiest way to heaven.’’ But he was on the 
stage again in a year, thus resuming the career 
which was to be his ruin. For so thoroughly 
was he incensed by Quin’s disparagement that 
he took the earliest opportunity of forcing the: 
quarrel to an issue. Having invited Quin to 
meet him, the two appear to have gone from 
tavern to tavern until they reached the Pope’s 
Head. Quin was averse to a duel, but no sooner 
had the two entered an empty room in the Corn- 


Inns and Taverns East of St. Paul’s 53 


hill tavern than Bowen fastened the door, and, 
standing with his back against it and drawing 
his sword, threatened Quin that he would run 
him through if he did not draw and defend 
himself. In vain did Quin remonstrate, and in 
the end he had to take to his sword to keep the 
angry Bowen at bay. He, however, pressed so 
eagerly on his fellow actor that it was not long 
ere he received a mortal wound. ‘Before he 
died Bowen confessed he had been in the wrong, 
and that frank admission was the main cause 
- why Quin was legally freed of blame for the 
tragic incident in the Pope’s Head. 

Although there was a Mermaid tavern in 
Cornhill, it must not be confused with its far 
more illustrious namesake in the nearby thor- 
oughfare of Cheapside. The Cornhill house 
was once kept by a man named Dun, and the 
story goes that one day when he was in the 
room with some witty gallants, one of them, 
who had been too familiar with the host’s wife, 
exclaimed, ‘‘I’ll lay five pounds there’s a 
cuckold in this company.’’ To which another 
immediately rejoined, ‘‘ ’Tis Dun! ’’ 

Around the other Mermaid — that in Cheap- 
side — much controversy has raged. One dis- 
pute was concerned with its exact site, but as 
the building disappeared entirely many genera- 


54 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


tions ago that is not a matter of moment. An- 
other cause of debate is found in that passage 
of Gifford’s life of Ben Jonson which describes 
his habits in the year 1603. ‘‘ About this 
time,’’ Gifford wrote, ‘‘ Jonson probably began 
to acquire that turn for conviviality for which 
he was afterwards noted. Sir Walter Raleigh, 
previously to his unfortunate engagement with 
Cobham and others, had instituted a meeting of 
beaux esprits at the Mermaid, a celebrated tav- 
ern in Friday Street. Of this club, which com- 
bined more talent and genius, perhaps, than 
ever met together before or since, our author 
was a member; and here, for many years, he 
regularly repaired with Shakespeare, Beau- 
mont, Fletcher, Selden, Cotton, Carew, Martin, 
Donne, and many others, whose names, even at 
this distant period, call up a mingled feeling 
of reverence and respect.’’ Many have found 
this flowing narrative hard of belief. It is 
doubted whether Gifford had any authority for 
mixing up Sir Walter Raleigh with the Mer- 
maid, and there are good grounds for believing 
that Jonson’s relations with Shakespeare were 
not of an intimate character. 

All the same, it is beyond dispute that there 
were rare combats of wit at the Mermaid in 
Jonson’s days and under his rule. For indis- 


Inns ana Taverns East of St. Paul’s 55 


putable witness we have that epistle which 
Francis Beaumont addressed to Jonson from 
some country retreat whither he and Fletcher 
had repaired to work on two of their comedies. 
Beaumont tells how he had dreams of the ‘‘ full 
Mermaid wine,’’ dwells upon the lack of ex- 
citement in his rural abode, and then breaks 
out: 


“ Methinks the little wit I had is lost 

Since I saw you; for wit is like a rest 

Held up at tennis, which men do best 

With the best gamesters. What things have we seen 
Done at the Mermaid! heard words that have been 
So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, 

As if that every one (from whence they came) 

Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, 

And had resolved to live a fool the rest 

Of his dull life.” 


That poem inspired another which should 
always be included in the anthology of the Mer- 
maid. More than two centuries after Beau- 
mont penned his rhyming epistle to Jonson, 
three brothers had their lodging for a brief 
season in Cheapside, and the poetic member of 
the trio doubtless mused long and often on 
those kindred spirits who, for him far more 
than for ordinary mortals, haunted the spot 
where the famous tavern once stood. Thus it 


56 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


eame about that John Keats’ residence in 
Cheapside was a prime factor in suggesting 
his ‘‘ Lines on the Mermaid Tavern ’’: 


“ Souls of poets dead and gone, 
What Elysium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern, 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 
Have ye tippled drink more fine 
Than mine host’s Canary wine? 
Or are fruits of Paradise 
Sweeter than those dainty pies 
Of venison? O generous food! 
Drest as though bold Robin Hood 
Would, with his maid Marian, 
Sup and bowse with horn and can. 


**T have heard that on a day 

Mine host’s sign-board flew away, 
Nobody knew whither, till 

An Astrologer’s old quill 

To a sheepskin gave the story, — 
Said he saw you in your glory, 
Underneath a new-old sign 

Sipping beverage divine, 

And pledging with contented smack 
The Mermaid in the Zodiac. 


“Souls of poets dead and gone, 

What Elysium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern, 

Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?” 


+ 
ae 
* 
S 
e 


ANCIENT VIEW OF CHEAPSIDE, SHOWING THE NAG’S HEAD INN, 


Inns and Taverns East of St. Paul’s 57 


Compared with the Mermaid, the other old 
taverns of Cheapside make a meagre showing 
in history. There was a Mitre, however, which 
dated back to 1475 at the least, and had the rep- 
utation of making ‘‘ noses red ’’; and the Bull 
Head, whose host was the ‘‘ most faithful 
friend ’’ Bishop Ridley ever had, and was the 
meeting-place of the Royal Society for several 
years; and, above all, the Nag’s Head, famous 
as the alleged scene of the fictitious consecra- 
tion of the Elizabethan bishops in 1559. There 
is an interesting drawing of 1638 depicting the 
procession of Mary de Medici in Cheapside on 
the occasion of her visit to her daughter, the 
wife of Charles I. This animated scene is his- 
torically valuable for the record it gives of 
several notable structures in the thoroughfare 
which was at that time the centre of the com- 
mercial life of London. In the middle of the 
picture is an excellent representation of Cheap- 
side Cross, to the right the conduit is seen, and 
in the extreme corner of the drawing is a por-- 
tion of the Nag’s Head with its projecting sign. 

Another of Ben Jonson’s haunts was situ- 
ated within easy distance of the Mermaid. 
This was the Three Tuns, of the Guildhall 
Yard, which Herrick includes in his list of tav- 
erns favoured by the dramatist. 


58 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


“ Ah Ben! 

Say how or when 
Shall we thy Guests, 
Meet at those lyric feasts 

Made at the Sun, 
The Dog, the Triple Tunne; 
Where we such clusters had 
As made us nobly wild, not mad?” 


Close at hand, too, in Old Jewry, was that 
Windmill tavern, of which Stow wrote that it 
was ‘‘ sometime the Jews’ synagogue, since a 
house of friars, then a nobleman’s house, after 
that a merchant’s house, wherein mayoralties 
have been kept, and now a wine tavern.’’ It 
must have been a fairly spacious hostelry, for 
on the occasion of the visit of the Emperor 
Charles V in 1522 the house is noted as being 
able to provide fourteen feather-beds, and sta- 
bling for twenty horses. From the fact that 
one of the characters in ‘‘ Every Man in His 
Humour ”’ dates a letter from the Windmill, 
and that two of the scenes in that comedy take 
place in a room of the tavern, it is obvious that 
it also must be numbered among the many 
houses frequented by Jonson. 

One dramatic episode is connected with the 
history of the Windmill. In the early years of | 
the seventeenth century considerable excite- 


Inns and Taverns East of St. Paul’s 59 


ment was aroused in Worcestershire by the do- 
ings of John Lambe, who indulged in magical 
arts and crystal glass enchantments. By 1622 
he was in London, and numbered the king’s 
favourite, the Duke of Buckingham, among his 
clients. That was sufficient to set the populace 
against him, an enmity which was greatly in- 
tensified by strange atmospheric disturbances 
which visited London in June, 1628. All this 
was attributed to Lambe’s conjuring, and the 
popular fury came to a climax a day or two 
later, when Lambe, as he was leaving the For- 
tune Theatre, was attacked by a mob of ap- 
prentices. He fled towards the city and finally 
took refuge in the Windmill. After affording 
the hunted man haven for a few hours the host, 
in view of the tumult outside, at length turned 
him into the street again, where he was so 
severely beaten that he died the following 
morning. A crystal ball and other conjuring 
implements were found on his person. 

Far less exciting was the history of Pon- 
tack’s, a French ordinary in Abchurch Lane 
which played a conspicuous part in the social 
life of London during the eighteenth century. 
Britons of that period had their own insular 
contempt for French cookery, as is well illus- 
trated by Rowlandson’s caricature which, with 


60 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


its larder of dead cats and its coarse revela- 
tion of other secrets of French cuisine, may be 
regarded as typical of the popular opinion. 
But Pontack and his eating-house flourished 
amazingly for all that. A French refugee in 
London in 1697 took pride in the fact that 
whereas it was difficult to obtain a good meal 
elsewhere ‘‘ those who would dine at one or 
two guineas per head are handsomely accom- 
modated at our famous Pontack’s.’’ The 
owner of this ordinary is sketched in brief by 
Evelyn, who frequently dined under his roof. 
Under date July 13, 1683, the diarist wrote: 
‘< T had this day much discourse with Monsieur 
Pontaq, son to the famous and wise prime Pres- 
ident of Bordeaux. This gentleman was owner — 
of that excellent vignoble of Pontaq and 
Obrien, from whence come the choicest of our 
Bordeaux wines; and I think I may truly say 
of him, what was not so truly said of St. Paul, 
that much learning had made him mad. He 
spoke all languages, was very rich, had a hand- 
some person, and was well bred; about forty- 
five years of. age.’’ 

Hogarth, it will be remembered, paid Pon- 
tack a dubious compliment in the third plate 
of his Rake’s Progress series. The room of 
that boisterous scene is adorned with pictures 


A 
: Pegs = am 
Caer Nims 

AZZ ae , 


A FRENCH ORDINARY IN LONDON. 
(From a Rewlandson Caricature). 


Inns and Taverns East of St. Paul’s 61 


of the Roman Emperors, one of which has been 
removed to give place to the portrait of Pon- 
tack, who is described by a Hogarth commenta- 
tor as ‘‘ an eminent French cook, whose great 
talents being turned to heightening sensual, 
rather than mental enjoyments, has a much 
better chance of a votive offering from this 
company, than would either Vespasian or Tra- 
jan.’’ These advertisements, however, were all 
to the good of the house. They were exactly 
of the kind to attract the most profitable type 
of customer. Those customers might grumble, 
as Swift did, at the prices, but they all agreed 
that they enjoyed very good dinners. The 
poet, indeed, expressed the unanimous verdict 
of the town when he asked: 


“ What wretch would nibble on a hanging shelf, 
When at Pontack’s he may regale himself?” 


CHAPTER III 
TAVERNS OF FLEET STREET AND THEREABOUTS 


Save for the High Street of Southwark, there 
was probably no thoroughfare of old London 
which could boast so many inns and taverns 
to the square yard as Fleet Street, but ere the 
pilgrim explores that famous neighbourhood he 
should visit several other spots where notable 
hostelries were once to be seen. He should, for 
example, turn his steps towards St. Paul’s 
Churchyard, which, despite the fact that it was 
chiefly inhabited by booksellers, had its Queen’s 
Arms tavern and its Goose and Gridiron. 

Memories of David Garrick and Dr. Johnson 
are associated with the Queen’s Arms. This 
tavern was the meeting-place of a select club 
formed by a few intimate friends of the ac- 
tor for the express purpose of providing them 
with opportunities to enjoy his society. Its 
members included James Clutterback, the city 
merchant who gave Garrick invaluable fiman- 
cial aid when he started at Drury Lane, and 
John Paterson, that helpful solicitor whom the 

62 


Taverns of Fleet Street 63 


actor selected as one of his executors. These 
admirers of ‘‘ little David ’’ were a temperate 
set; ‘‘ they were none of them drinkers, and 
in order to make a reckoning called only for 
French wine.’’ Johnson’s association with the 
house is recorded by Boswell as belonging to 
the year 1781. ‘‘ On Friday, April 6,’’ he 
writes, ‘‘ he carried me to dine at a club which, 
at his desire, had been lately formed at the 
Queen’s Arms in St. Paul’s Churchyard. He 
told Mr. Hoole that he wished to have a City 
Club, and asked him to collect one; but, said 
he, ‘ Don’t let them be patriots.’ The company 
were to-day very sensible, well-behaved men.’’ 
Which, taken in conjunction with the abstemi- 
ous nature of the Garrick club, would seem to 
- show that the Queen’s Arms was an exceed- 
ingly decorous house. . 

Concerning the Goose and Gridiron only a 
few scanty facts have survived. Prior to the 
Great Fire it was known as the Mitre, but on 
its being rebuilt it was called the Lyre. When 
it came into repute through the concerts of a 
favourite musical society being given within its 
walls, the house was decorated with a sign of 
Apollo’s lyre, surmounted by a swan. This 
provided too good an opportunity for the wits 
of the town to miss, and they promptly renamed 


64 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


the house as the Goose and Gridiron, which re- 
calls the facetious landlord who, on gaining 
possession of premises once used as a music- 
house, chose for his sign a goose stroking the 
bars of a gridiron and inscribed beneath, ‘‘ The 
Swan and Harp.’’ It is an interesting note in 
the history of the St. Paul’s Churchyard house 
that early in the eighteenth century, on the re- 
vival of Freemasonry in England, the Grand 
Lodge was established here. 

Almost adjacent to St. Paul’s, that is, m 
Queen’s Head Passage, which leads from Pa- 
ternoster Row into Newgate Street, once stood 
the famous Dolly’s Chop House, the resort of 
Fielding, and Defoe, and Swift, and Dryden, 
and Pope and many other sons of genius. It 
was built on the site of an ordinary owned by 
Richard Tarleton, the Elizabethan actor whose 
playing was so humorous that it even won the 
praise of Jonson. He was indeed such a merry 
soul, and so great a favourite in clown’s parts, 
that innkeepers frequently had his portrait 
painted as a sign. The chief feature of the es- 
tablishment which succeeded Tarleton’s tavern 
appears to have been the excellence of its beef- 
steaks. It should also be added that they were 
served fresh from the grill, a fact which is 
accentuated by the allusion which Smollett 


Taverns of Fleet Street 65 


places in one of Melford’s letters to Sir Walkin 
Phillips in ‘‘ Humphry Clinker ’’: ‘‘I send 
you the history of this day, which has been re- 
markably full of adventures; and you will own 
I give you them like a beef-steak at Dolly’s, 
hot and hot, without ceremony and parade.”’ 

Out into Newgate Street the pilgrim should 
now make his way in search of that Salutation 
Tavern which is precious for its associations 
with Coleridge and Lamb and Southey, Once 
more, alas! the new has usurped the place of 
the old, but there is some satisfaction in being 
able to gaze upon the lineal successor of so 
noted a house. The Salutation was a favourite 
social resort in the eighteenth century and was 
frequently the scene of the more formal dining 
occasions of the booksellers and printers. 
There, is a poetical invitation to one such func- 
tion, a booksellers’ supper on January 19, 1726, 
which reads: 


*'You’re desired on Monday next to meet 
(At Salutation Tavern, Newgate Street, 
‘Supper will be on table just at eight.” 


One of those rhyming invitations was sent to 
Samuel Richardson, the novelist, who replied in 


kind: 


66 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


nT SE SRT ne nena Hs ERPs PS a nee 
“ For me I’m much concerned I cannot meet 
At Salutation Tavern, Newgate Street.” 


Another legend credits this with being the 
house whither Sir Christopher Wren resorted 
to smoke his pipe while the new St. Paul’s was 
being built. - More authentic, however, and in- 
deed beyond dispute, are the records which 
link the memories of Coleridge and Lamb and 
Southey with this tavern. It was here Southey 
found Coleridge in one of his many fits of de- 
pression, but pleasanter far are the recollec- 
tions which recall the frequent meetings of 
Lamb and Coleridge, between whom there was 
so much in common. They would not forget 
that it was at the nearby Christ’s Hospital 
they were schoolboys together, the reminis- 
cences of which happy days coloured the 
thoughts of Elia as he penned that exquisite 
portrait of his friend: ‘‘ Come back into mem- 
ory, like as thou wert in the day-spring of thy 
fancies, with hope like a fiery column before 
thee — the dark pillar not yet turned — Samuel 
Taylor Coleridge — Logician, Metaphysician, 
Bard!— How have I seen the casual passer 
through the cloisters stand still, entranced with 
admiration to hear thee unfold, in thy deep and > 
sweet intonations, the mysteries of Jamblichus, 


Taverns of Fleet Street 67 


cS ae a 
or Plotinus, or reciting Homer in his Greek, or 
Pindar — while the walls of the old Grey 
Friars re-echoed to the accents of the inspired 
charity-boy!’’ As Coleridge was the elder by 
two years he left Christ’s Hospital for Cam- 
bridge before Lamb had finished his course, but 
he came back to London now and then, to meet 
his schoolmate in a smoky little room of the 
Salutation and discuss metaphysics and poetry 
to the accompaniment of egg-hot, Welsh rab- 
bits, and tobacco. Those golden hours in the 
old tavern left their impress deep in Lamb’s 
sensitive nature, and when he came to dedicate 
his works to Coleridge he hoped that some of 
the sonnets, carelessly regarded by the general 
reader, would awaken in his friend ‘‘ remem- 
brances which I should be sorry should be ever 
totally extinct — the memory ‘ of summer days 
and of delightful years,’ even so far back as 
those old suppers at our old Salutation Inn, — 
when life was fresh and topics exhaustless — 
and you first kindled in me, if not the power, 
yet the love of poetry and beauty and kindli- 
ness.”’ 

Continuing westward from Newgate Street, 
the explorer of the inns and taverns of old 
London comes first to Holborn Viaduct, where 
there is nothing of note to detain him, and then 


68 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


reaches Holborn proper, with its continuation 
as High Holborn, which by the time of Henry 
III had become a main highway into the city 
for the transit of wood and hides, corn and 
cheese, and other agricultural products. It 
must be remembered also that many of the 
principal coaches had their stopping-place in 
this thoroughfare, and that as a consequence 
the inns were numerous and excellent and much 
frequented by country gentlemen on their visits 
to town. Although those inns have long been 
swept away, the quaint half-timbered buildings 
of Staple Inn remain to aid the imagination in 
repicturing: those far-off days when the Dag- 
ger, and the Red Lion, and the Bull and Gate, 
and the Blue Boar, and countless other hostel- 
ries were dotted on either side of the street. 
With the first of these, the Dagger Tavern, 
wo cross the tracks of Ben Jonson once more. 
Twice does the dramatist allude to this house in 
‘¢ The Alchemist,’’ and the revelation that Dap- 
per frequented the Dagger would have con- 
veyed its own moral to seventeenth century 
playgoers, for it was then notorious as a resort 
of the lowest and most disreputable kind. The 
other reference makes mention of ‘‘ Dagger 
frumety,’’ which is a reminder that this house, © 
as was the case with another of like name, 


Taverns of Fleet Street 69 


prided itself upon the excellence of its pies, 
which were decorated with a representation of 
a dagger. That these pasties were highly ap- 
preciated is the only conclusion which can be 
drawn from the contemporary exclamation, 
‘¢ 1’ll not take thy word for a Dagger pie,’’ and 
from the fact that in ‘‘ The Devil is an Ass ”’ 
Jonson makes Iniquity declare that the ’pren- 
tice boys rob their masters and ‘‘ spend it in 
pies at the Dagger and the Woolsack.’’ 

A second of these Holborn inns bore a sign 
which has puzzled antiquaries not a little. The 
name was given as the Bull and Gate, but the 
actual sign was said to depict the Boulogne 
Gate at Calais. Here, it is thought, a too pho- 
netic pronunciation of the French word led to 
the contradiction of name and sign. What is 
more to the point, and of greater interest, is 
the connection Fielding established between 
Tom Jones and the Bull and Gate. When that 
hero reached London in his search after the 
Irish peer who brought Sophia to town, he en- 
tered the great city by the highway which is 
now Gray’s Inn Road, and at once began his 
arduous search. But without success. He 
prosecuted his enquiry till the clock struck 
eleven, and then Jones ‘‘ at last yielded to the 
advice of Partridge, and retreated to the Bull 


70 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


and Gate in Holborn, that being the inn where 
he had first alighted, and where he retired to 
enjoy that kind of repose which usually attends 
persons in his circumstances.’’ 

No less notable a character than Oliver 
Cromwell is linked in a dramatic manner with 
the histories of the Blue Boar and the Red Lion 
inns. The narrative of the first incident is put 
in Cromwell’s own mouth by Lord Broghill, 
that accomplished Irish peer whose conversion 
from royalism to the cause of the Common-- 
wealth was accomplished by the Ironsides gen- 
eral in the course of one memorable interview. 
According to this authority, Cromwell once de- 
clared that there was a time when he and his 
party would have settled their differences with 
Charles I but for an incident which destroyed 
their confidence in that monarch. What that 
incident was cannot be more vividly described 
than by the words Lord Broghill attributed to 
Cromwell. ‘‘ While we were busied in these 
thoughts,’’ he said, ‘‘ there came a letter from 
one of our spies, who was of the king’s bed- 
chamber, which acquainted us, that on that day 
our final doom was decreed; that he could not 
possibly tell us what it was, but we might find 
it out, if we could intercept a letter, sent from 
the king to the queen, wherein he declared what 


Taverns of Fleet Street fil 


he would do. The letter, he said, was sewed up 
in the skirt of a saddle, and the bearer of it 
would come with the saddle upon his head, 
about ten of the clock that night, to the Blue © 
Boar Inn in Holborn; for there he was to take 
horse and go to Dover with it. This messenger 
knew nothing of the letter in the saddle, but 
some persons at Dover did. We were at Wind- 
sor, when we received this letter; and imme- 
diately upon the receipt of it, Ireton and I re- 
solved to take one trusty fellow with us, and 
with troopers’ habits to go to the Inn in Hol- 
born; which accordingly we did, and set our 
man at the gate of the Inn, where the wicket 
only was open to let people in and out. Our 
man was to give us notice, when any one came 
with a saddle, whilst we in the disguise of com- 
mon troopers called for cans of beer, and con- 
tinued drinking till about ten o’clock: the sen- 
tinel at the gate then gave notice that the man 
with the saddle was come in. Upon this we 
immediately arose, and, as the man was leading 
out his horse saddled, came up to him with 
drawn swords and told him that we were to 
search all that went in and out there; but as he 
looked like an honest man, we would only 
search his saddle and so dismiss him. Upon 
that we ungirt the saddle and carried it into 


72 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


the stall, where we had been drinking, and left 
the horseman with our sentinel: then ripping 
up one of the skirts of the saddle, we there 
found the letter of which we had been in- 
formed: and having got it into our own hands, 
we delivered the saddle again to the man, tell- 
ing him he was an honest man, and bid him go 
about his business. The man, not knowing 
what had been done, went away to Dover. As 
soon as we had the letter we opened it; in which 
we found the king had acquainted the queen, 
that he was now courted by both the factions, 
the Scotch Presbyterians and the Army; and 
which bid fairest for him should have him; but 
he thought he should close with the Scots, 
sooner than the other. Upon this we took 
horse, and went to Windsor; and finding we 
were not likely to have any tolerable terms with 
the king, we immediately from that time for- 
ward resolved his ruin.”’ 

As that scene at the Blue Boar played so im- 
portant a part in the sequence of events which 
were to lead to Cromwell’s attainment of su- 
preme power in England, so another Holborn 
inn, the Red Lion, was to witness the final act 
of that petty revenge which marked the down- 
fall of the Commonwealth. Perplexing mys- 
tery surrounds the ultimate fate of Cromwell’s 


Taverns of Fleet Street 73 


body, but the record runs that his corpse, and 
those of Ireton and Bradshaw, were ruthlessly 
torn from their graves soon after the Restora- 
tion and were taken to the Red Lion, whence, — 
on the following morning, they were dragged 
on a sledge to Tyburn and there treated with 
the ignominy hitherto reserved for the vilest 
criminals. All kinds of legends surround these 
gruesome proceedings. One tradition will have 
it that some of Cromwell’s faithful friends 
rescued his mutilated remains, and buried them 
- in a field on the north side of Holborn, a spot 
now covered by the public garden in Red Lion 
Square. On the other hand grave doubts have 
been expressed as to whether the body taken 
to the Red Lion was really that of Cromwell. 
One legend asserts that it was not buried in 
Westminster Abbey but sunk in the Thames; 
- another that it was interred in Naseby field; 
and a third that it was placed in the coffin of 
Charles I at Windsor. 

Impatient though he may be to revel in the 
multifarious associations of Fleet Street, the 
pilgrim should turn aside into Ludgate Hill for 
a few minutes for the sake of that Belle Sauv- 
age inn the name of which has been responsible 
for a rich harvest of explanatory theory. Ad- 
dison contributed to it in his own humorous 


74 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


way. An early number of the Spectator was 
devoted to the discussion of the advisability of 
an office being established for the regulation of 
signs, one suggestion being that when the name 
of a shopkeeper or innkeeper lent itself to ‘‘ an 
ingenious sign-post ’’ full advantage should be 
taken of the opportunity. In this connection 
Addison offered the following explanation of 
the name of the Ludgate Hill inn, which, it has 
been shrewdly conjectured by Henry B. Wheat- 
ley, was probably intended as a joke. ‘‘ As for 
the hbell-savage, which is the sign of a savage 
man standing by a bell, I was formerly very 
much puzzled upon the conceit of it, till I acci- 
dentally fell into the reading of an old romance 
translated out of the French; which gives an 
account of a very beautiful woman who was 
found in a wilderness, and is called in the 
French La belle Sauvage; and is everywhere 
translated by our countrymen the bell-savage.”’ 

Not quite so poetic is the most feasible ex- 
planation of this unusual name for an inn. It 
seems that the original sign of the house was 
the Bell, but that in the middle of the fifteenth 
century it had an alternative designation. A 
deed of that period speaks of ‘‘ all that tene- 
ment or inn with its appurtenances, called 
Savage’s inn, otherwise called the Bell on the 


Taverns of Fleet Street 75 


Hoop.’’ This was evidently a case where the 
name of the host counted for more than the 
actual sign of the house, and the habit of speak- 
ing of Savage’s Bell may easily have led to the | 
perversion into Bell Savage, and thence to the 
Frenchified form mostly used to-day. 
Leaving these questions of etymology for 
more certain matters, it is interesting to recall 
that it was in the yard of the Belle Sauvage 
Sir Thomas Wyatt’s rebellion came to an in- 
glorious end. That rising was ostensibly aimed 
at the prevention of Queen Mary’s marriage 
with a prince of Spain, and for that reason 
won a large measure of support from the men 
of Kent, at whose head Wyatt marched on the 
capital. At London Bridge, however, his way 
was blocked, and he was obliged to make a deé- 
tour by way of Kingston, in the hope of enter- 
ing the city by Lud Gate. But his men became 
disorganized on the long march, and at each 
stage more and more were cut off from the 
main body by the queen’s forces, until, by the 
time he reached Fleet Street, the rebel had only 
some three hundred followers. ‘‘ He passed 
Temple Bar,’’ wrote Froude, ‘‘ along. Fleet 
Street, and reached Ludgate. The gate was 
open as he approached, when some one seeing 
a number of men coming up, exclaimed, ‘ These 


76 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


be Wyatt’s antients.’ Muttered curses were 
heard among the by-standers; but Lord How- 
ard was on the spot; the gates, notwithstand- 
ing the murmurs, were instantly closed; and 
when Wyatt knocked, Howard’s voice an- 
swered, ‘ Avaunt! traitor; thou shalt not 
come in here.’ ‘I have kept touch,’ Wyatt ex- 
claimed; but his enterprise was hopeless now. 
He sat down upon a bench outside the Belle 
Sauvage yard.’’ That was the end. His fol- 
lowers scattered in all directions, and in a little 
while he was a prisoner, on his way to the 
Tower and the block. 

More peaceful are the records which tell how 
the famous carver in wood, Grinling Gibbons, 
and the notorious quack, Richard Rock, once 
had lodgings in the Belle Sauvage Yard, and 
more picturesque are the memories of those 
days when the inn was the starting-place of 
those coaches which lend a touch of romance 
to old English life. Horace Walpole says Gib- 
bons signalized his tenancy by carving a pot 
of flowers over a doorway, so delicate in leaf 
and stem that the whole shook with the motion 
of the carriages passing by. The quack, into 
the hands of whom and his like Goldsmith de- 
clared all fell unless they were ‘‘ blasted by 
lightning, or struck dead with some sudden dis- 


“NNI GOVANVS WITHA AO CUVA 


LONE. aah A BRO BS 
BRO se PS 


Rhee. ee 


4 


aA 


Taverns of Fleet Street 77 


order,’’ was a ‘‘ great man, short of stature, 
fat,’? and waddled as he walked. He was 
‘* usually drawn at the top of his own bills, sit- 
ting in his arm-chair, holding a little bottle 
between his finger and thumb, and surrounded 
with rotten teeth, nippers, pills, packets, and 
gallipots.’’ | 

From the Belle Sauvage to the commence- 
ment of Fleet Street is but a stone’s throw, but 
the pilgrim must not expect to find any memo- 
rials of the past in the eastern portion of that 
famous thoroughfare. The buildings here are 
practically all modern, many of them, indeed, 
having been erected in the last decade. As 
these lines are being written, too, the announce- 
ment is made of a project for the further trans- 
formation of the street at the cost of half a 
million pounds. The idea is to continue the 
widening of the thoroughfare further west, and 
if that plan is carried out, devastation must 
overtake most of the ancient buildings which 
still remain. 

By far the most outstanding feature of the 
Fleet Street of to-day is the number and vari- 
ety of its newspaper offices; two centuries ago 
it had a vastly different aspect. 


“From thence, along that tipling street, 
Distinguish’d by the name of Fleet, 


78 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


Where Tavern-Signs hang thicker far, 
Than Trophies down at Westminster ; 
And evry Bacchanalian Landlord 
Displays his Ensign, or his Standard, 
Bidding Defiance to each Brother, 

As if at Wars with one another.” 


How thoroughly the highway deserved the 
name of ‘‘ tipling street ’’ may be inferred 
from the fact that its list of taverns included 
but was not exhausted by the Devil, the King’s 
Head, the Horn, the Mitre, the Cock, the Bolt- 
in-Tun, the Rainbow, the Cheshire Cheese, Her- 
cules Pillars, the Castle, the Dolphin, the Seven 
Stars, Dick’s, Nando’s, and Peele’s. No one 
would recognize in the Anderton’s Hotel of to- 
day the lineal successor of one of these ancient 
taverns, and yet it is a fact that that establish- 
ment perpetuates the Horn tavern of the fif- 
teenth century. In the early seventeenth cen- 
tury the house was in high favour with the legal 
fraternity, but its patronage of the present time 
is of a more miscellaneous character. The 
present building was erected in 1880. 

Close by, a low and narrow archway gives 
access to Wine Office Court, a spot ever mem- 
orable for its having been for some three years 
the home of Oliver Goldsmith. It was in 1760, 
when in his thirty-second year, that he took 


FROM FLEET STREET. 


CE 


THE CHESHIRE CHEESE — ENTRAN 


Taverns of Fleet Street 79 


lodgings in this cramped alleyway, and here he 
remained, toiling as a journeyman for an astute 
publisher, until towards the end of 1762. So 
improved were Goldsmith’s fortunes in these 
days that he launched out into supper parties, 
one of which, in May, 1761, was rendered mem- 
orable by the presence of Dr. Johnson, who at- 
tired himself with unusual care for the occa- 
sion. To a companion who, noting the new 
suit of clothes, the new wig nicely powdered, 
and all else in harmony, commented on his ap- 
pearance, Johnson rejoined, ‘‘ Why, sir, I hear 
that Goldsmith, who is a very great sloven, 
justifies his disregard of cleanliness and de- 
cency by quoting my practice, and I am desirous 
this night to show him a better example.’’ The 
house where that supper party was held has dis- 
appeared, but in the Cheshire Cheese nearby 
there yet survives a building which the cen- 
turies have spared. 

Exactly how old this tavern is cannot be de- 
cided. It is inevitable that there must have 
been a hostelry on this spot before the Great 
Fire of 1666, inasmuch as there is a record to 
show that it was rebuilt the following year. 
Which goes to show that the present building 
has attained the ripe age of nearly two and a 
half centuries. No one who explores its various 


80 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


apartments will be likely to question that fact. 
Everything about the place wears an air of 
antiquity, from the quaint bar-room to the more 
private chambers upstairs. The chief glory of 
the Cheshire Cheese, however, is to be seen 
downstairs on the left hand of the principal 
entrance. This is the genuinely old-fashioned 
eating-room, with its rude tables, its austere 
seats round the walls, its sawdust-sprinkled 
floor, and, above all, its sacred nook in the fur- 
ther right hand corner which is pointed out as 
the favourite seat of Dr. Johnson. Above this 
niche is a copy of the Reynolds portrait of the 
sturdy lexicographer, beneath which is the fol- 
lowing inscription: ‘‘ The Favourite Seat of 
Dr. Johnson. Born 18th Septr., 1709. Died 
13th Decr., 1784. In him a noble understanding 
and a masterly intellect were united with grand 
independence of character and unfailing good- 
ness of heart, which won him the admiration 
of his own age, and remain as recommendations 
to the reverence of posterity. ‘ No, Sir! there 
is nothing which has yet been contrived by man 
by which so much happiness has been produced 
as by a good tavern.’ ”’ 

After all this it is surprising to learn that 
the authority for connecting Dr. Johnson with 
the Cheshire Cheese rests upon a somewhat late 


THE JOHNSON ROOM. 


CHEESE 


THE CHESHIRE 


Taverns of Fleet Street ei tee 


tradition. Boswell does not mention the tavern, 
an omission which is accounted for by noting 
that ‘‘ Boswell’s acquaintance with Johnson be- 
gan when Johnson was an old man, and when 
he had given up the house in Gough Square, 
and Goldsmith had long departed from Wine 
Office Court. At the best,’’ this apologist adds, 
‘‘ Boswell only knew Johnson’s life in widely 
separated sections.’’ As appeal cannot, then, 
be made to Boswell it is made to others. The 
most important of these witnesses is a Cyrus 
Jay, who, in a book of reminiscences published 
in 1868, claimed to have frequented the Chesh- 
ire Cheese for fifty-five years, and to have 
known a man who had frequently seen. Johnson 
and Goldsmith in the tavern. Another writer 
has placed on record that he often met in the 
tavern gentlemen who had seen the famous pair 
there on many occasions. 

Taking into account these traditions and the 
further fact that the building supplies its own 
evidence as to antiquity, it is not surprising 
that the Cheshire Cheese enjoys an enviable 
popularity with all who find a special appeal 
in the survivals of old London. As a natural 
consequence more recent writing in prose and 
verse has been bestowed upon this tavern than 
any other of the metropolis. Perhaps the best 


82 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


ee | 
of the many poems penned in its praise is that 
‘‘ Ballade ’’ written by John Davidson, the 
poet whose mysterious disappearance has 
added so sad a chapter to the history of litera- 
ture. 


“I know a house of antique ease 
Within the smoky city’s pale, 
A spot wherein the spirit sees 
Old London through a thinner veil. 
The modern world so stiff and stale, 
You leave behind you when you please, 
For long clay pipes and great old ale 
And beefsteaks in the ‘ Cheshire Cheese.’ 


“ Beneath this board Burke’s, Goldsmith’s knees 
Were often thrust — so runs the tale — 
"T'was here the Doctor took his ease 
And wielded speech that like a flail 
Threshed out the golden truth. All hail, 
Great souls! that met on nights like these 
Till morning made the candles pale, 
And revellers left the ‘ Cheshire Cheese.’ 


“By kindly sense and old decrees 
Of England’s use they set the sail 
We press to never-furrowed seas, 

For vision-worlds we breast the gale, 
And still we seek and still we fail, 
For still the ‘ glorious phantom ’ flees. 
Ah well! no phantom are the ale 

And beefsteaks of the ‘ Cheshire Cheese.’ 


Taverns of Fleet Street 83 


“If doubts or debts thy soul assail, 
If Fashion’s forms its current freeze, 
Try a long pipe, a glass of ale, 
And supper at the ‘ Cheshire Cheese.’ ” 


While the Cheshire Cheese was less fortu- 
nate than the Cock in the Fire of London, the 
latter house, which escaped that conflagration, 
has fallen on comparatively evil days in mod- 
ern times. In other words, the exterior of the 
original building, which dated from early in 
the seventeenth century, was demolished in 
1888, to make room for a branch establishment 
of the Bank of England. Pepys knew the old 
house and spent many a jovial evening beneath 
its roof. It was thither, one April evening in 
1667, that he took Mrs. Pierce and Mrs. Knapp, 
the latter being the actress whom he thought 
‘* pretty enough ’’ besides being ‘‘ the most ex- 
cellent, mad-humoured thing, and sings the 
noblest that ever I heard in my life.’’ The trio 
had a gay time; they ‘‘ drank, and eat lobster, 
and sang ’’ and were ‘‘ mightily merry.’’ By 
and by the crafty diarist deleted Mrs. Pierce 
from the party, and went off to Vauxhall with 
the fair actress, his confidence in the enterprise 
being strengthened by the fact that the night 
was ‘‘ darkish.’’ If she did not find out that 
excursion, Mrs. Pepys knew quite enough of 


84 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


her husband’s weakness for Mrs. Knapp to be 
justified of her jealousy. And even he appears 
to have experienced twinges of conscience on 
the matter. Perhaps that was the reason why 
he took his wife to the Cock, and ‘‘ did give her 
a dinner ’’ there. Other sinners have found it 
comforting to exercise repentance on the scene 
of their offences. 

Judging from an advertisement which was 
published in 1665, the proprietor of the Cock 
did not allow business to interfere with pleas- 
ure. ‘‘ This is to certify,’’ his announcement 
ran, ‘‘ that the master of the Cock and Bottle, 
commonly called the Cock Alehouse, at Temple 
Bar, hath dismissed his servants, and shut up 
his house, for this Long Vacation, intending 
(God willing) to return at Michaelmas next.”’ 

But the tavern is prouder of its association 
with Tennyson than of any other fact in its 
history. The poet was always fond of this 
neighbourhood. His son records that whenever 
he went to London with his father, the first 
item on their programme was a walk in the 
Strand and Fleet Street. ‘‘ Instead of the 
stuccoed houses in the West End, this is the 
place where I should like to live,’’ Tennyson 
would say. During his early days he lodged — 
in Norfolk Street close by, dining with his 


Taverns of Fleet Street 85 


friends at the Cock and other taverns, but al- 
ways having a preference for the room ‘‘ high 
over roaring Temple-bar.’’ In the estimation of 
the poet, as his son has chronicled, ‘‘ a perfect 
dinner was a beef-steak, a potato, a cut of 
cheese, a pint of port, and afterwards a pipe 
(never a cigar). When joked with by his 
friends about his liking for cold salt beef and 
new potatoes, he would answer humorously, 
‘ All fine-natured men know what is good to 
eat.’ Very genial evenings they were, with 
plenty of anecdote and wit.’’ 

All this, especially the pint of port, throws 
light on ‘‘ Will Waterproof’s Lyrical Mono- 
logue,’’ which, as the poet himself has stated, 
was ‘‘ made at the Cock.’’ Its opening apos- 
trophe is familiar enough: 


“O plump head-waiter at The Cock, 
To which I most resort, 
How goes the time? Tis five o’clock. 
Go fetch a pint of port.” 


How faithfully that waiter obeyed the poet’s 
injunction to bring him of the best, all readers 
of the poem are aware: 


“The pint, you brought me, was the best 
That ever came from pipe.” 


86 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


-Undoubtedly. As witness the flights of fancy 
which it created. Its potent vintage trans- 
formed both the waiter and the sign of the 
house in which he served and shaped this pretty 
legend. 


* And hence this halo lives about 

The waiter’s hands, that reach 

To each his perfect pint of stout, 
His proper chop to each. 

He looks not like the common breed 
That with the napkin dally; 

I think he came like Ganymede, 
From some delightful valley. 


“The Cock was of a larger egg 

Than modern poultry drop, 

Stept forward on a firmer leg, 
And cramm’d a plumper crop; 

Upon an ampler dunghill trod, 
Crow’d lustier late and early, 

Sipt wine from silver, praising God, 
And raked in golden barley. 


“A private life was all his joy, 

Till in a court he saw 

A something -pottle-bodied boy 
That knuckled at the law: 

He stoop’d and clutch’d him, fair and good, 
Flew over roof and casement: 

His brothers of the weather stood 
Stock-still for sheer amazement. 


Taverns of Fleet Street 87 


“ But he, by farmstead, thorpe and spire, 
And follow’d with acclaims, 
A sign to many a staring shire 
_ Came crowing over Thames. 
Right down by smoky Paul’s they bore, 
Till, where the street grows straiter, 
One fix’d for ever at the door, 
And one became head-waiter.” 


Just here the poet bethought himself. It was 
time to rein in his fancy. Truly it was out of 
place to make 


“The violet of a legend blow 
Among the chops and steaks.” 


So he descends to more mundane things, to 
moralize at last upon the waiter’s fate and the 
folly of quarrelling with our lot in life. It is 
interesting to learn from FitzGerald that the 
Cock’s plump head-waiter read the poem, but 
disappointing to know that his only remark on 
the performance was, ‘‘ Had Mr. Tennyson 
dined oftener here, he would not have minded 
it so much.’’ From which poets may learn the 
moral that to trifle with Jove’s cupbearer in 
the interests of a tavern waiter is liable to lead 
to misunderstanding. But it is, perhaps, of 
more importance to note that, notwithstanding 
the destruction of the exterior of the Cock in 


88 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


1888, one room of that ancient building was 
preserved intact and may be found on the first 
floor of the new house. There, for use as well 
as admiration, are the veritable mahogany 
boxes which Tennyson knew, — 


“Old boxes, larded with the steam 
Of thirty thousand dinners — ” 


and not less in evidence is the stately old fire- 
place which Pepys was familiar with. 

Not even a seat or a fireplace has survived 
of the Mitre tavern of Shakespeare’s days, or 
the Mitre tavern which Boswell mentions so 
often. They were not the same house, as has 
sometimes been stated, and the Mitre of to-day 
is little more than a name-successor to either. 
Ben Jonson’s plays and other literature of the 
seventeenth century make frequent mention of 
the old Mitre, and that was no doubt the tavern 
Pepys patronized on occasion. 

No one save an expert indexer would have 
the courage to commit himself to the exact 
number of Boswell’s references to the Mitre. 
He had a natural fondness for the tavern as 
the scene of his first meal with Johnson, and 
with Johnson himself, as his biographer has 
explained, the place was a first favourite for 
many years. ‘‘I had learned,’’ says Boswell 


Taverns of Fleet Street 89 


Fa rn LE TT 
in recording the early stages of his acquaint- 
ance with his famous friend, ‘‘ that his place 
of frequent resort was the Mitre Tavern in 
Fleet Street, where he loved to sit up late, and 
I begged I might be allowed to pass an evening 
with him there, which he promised I should. 
A few days afterwards I met him near Temple- 
bar, about one o’clock in the morning, and 
asked if he would then go to the Mitre. ‘ Sir,’ 
said he, ‘ it is too late; they won’t let us in. 
But I’ll go with you another night with all my 
heart.’ ’? That other night soon came. Boswell 
called for his friend at nine o’clock, and the 
two were soon in the tavern. They had a good 
supper, and port wine, but the occasion was 
more than food and drink to Boswell. ‘‘ The 
orthodox high-church sound of the Mitre, — 
the figure and manner of the celebrated Samuel 
Johnson, — the extraordinary power and pre- 
cision of his conversation, and the pride arising 
from finding myself admitted as his companion, 
produced a variety of sensations, and a pleas- 
ing elevation of mind beyond what I had ever 
before experienced.’’ 

On the next occasion Goldsmith was of the 
company, and the visit after that was brought 
about through Boswell’s inability to keep his 
promise to entertain Johnson at his own rooms. 


90 Inns and Taverns of Old London . 


The little Scotsman had a squabble with his 
landlord, and was obliged to take his guest to 
the Mitre. ‘‘ There is nothing,’’ Johnson said, 
‘¢ in this mighty misfortune; nay, we shall be 
better at the Mitre.’’ And Boswell was char- 
acteristically oblivious of the slur on his gifts 
as a host. But that, perhaps, is a trifle com- 
pared with the complacency with which he re- 
cords further snubbings administered to him at 
that tavern. For example, there was that rainy 
night when Boswell made some feeble com- 
plaints about the weather, qualifying them with 
the profound reflection that it was good for the 
vegetable creation. ‘‘ Yes, sir,’’ Johnson re- 
joined, ‘‘ it is good for vegetables, and for the 
animals who eat those vegetables, and for the 
animals who eat those animals.’’ Then there 
was that other occasion when the note-taker 
talked airily about his interview with Rousseau, 
and asked Johnson whether he thought him a 
bad man, only to be crushed with Johnson’s, 
‘¢ Sir, if you are talking jestingly of this, I 
don’t talk with you. If you mean to be serious, 
I think him one of the worst of men.’’ Severer 
still was the rebuke of another conversation at 
the Mitre. The ever-blundering Boswell rated 
Foote for indulging his talent of ridicule at the 
expense of his visitors, ‘‘ making fools of his 


DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON 


Mt 


7 


Taverns of Fleet Street 9] 


company,’’ as he expressed it. ‘‘ Sir,’’ John- 
son said, ‘‘ he does not make fools of his com- 
pany; they whom he exposes are fools already: 
he only brings them into action,”’ 

But, if only in gratitude for what Boswell 
accomplished, last impressions of the Mitre 
should not be of those castigations. A far pret- 
tier picture is that which we owe to the remi- 
niscences of Dr. Maxwell, who, while assistant 
preacher at the Temple, had many opportuni- 
ties of enjoying Johnson’s company. Dr. Max- 
well relates that one day when he was paying 
Johnson a visit, two young ladies from the coun- 
try came to consult him on the subject of Meth- 
odism, to which they were inclined. ‘‘ Come,’’ 
he said, ‘‘ you pretty fools, dine with Maxwell 
and me at the Mitre, and we will take over that 
subject.’’ Away they went, and after dinner 
Johnson ‘‘ took one of them upon his knee, and 
fondled her for half an hour together.’’ Dante 
Gabriel Rossetti chose that incident for a pic- 
ture, but neither his canvas nor Dr. Maxwell’s 
record enlightens us as to whether the ‘‘ pretty 
fools ’’ were preserved to the Church of Eng- 
land. But it was a happy evening — especially 
for Dr. Johnson. 

As with the Cock, a part of the interior of 
the Rainbow Tavern dates back more than a 


92 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


couple of centuries. The chief interest of the 
Rainbow, however, lies in the fact that it was 
at first a coffee-house, and one of the earliest 
in London. It was opened in 1657 by a barber 
named James Farr who evidently anticipated 
more profit in serving cups of the new beverage 
than in wielding his scissors and razor. He 
succeeded so well that the adjacent tavern- 
keepers combined to get his coffee-house sup- 
pressed, for, said they, the ‘‘ evil smell ’’ of the 
new drink ‘‘ greatly annoyed the neighbour- 
hood.’’ But Mr. Farr prospered in spite of 
his competitors, and by and by he turned the 
Rainbow into a regular tavern. 

No one who gazes upon the century-old print 
of the King’s Head can do other than regret the 
total disappearance of that picturesque build- 
ing. This tavern stood at the west corner of © 
Chancery Lane and is believed by antiquaries 
to have been built in the reign of Edward VI. 
It figures repeatedly in ancient engravings of 
the royal processions of long-past centuries, and 
contributed a notable feature to the progress 
of Queen Elizabeth as she was on her way to © 
visit Sir Thomas Gresham. The students of 
the Temple hit upon the effective device of hav- 
ing several cherubs descend, as it were, from. 
the heavens, for the purpose of presenting the 


Taverns of Fleet Street 93 


queen with a crown of gold and laurels, together 
with the inevitable verses of an Elizabethan 
ceremony, and the roof of the King’s Head was 
chosen as the heaven from whence these visit- 
ants. came down. Only the first and second 
floors were devoted to tavern purposes; on the 
ground floor were shops, from one of which the 
first edition of Izaak Walton’s ‘‘ Complete An- 
gler ’’ was sold, while another provided accom- 
modation for the grocery business of Abraham 
Cowley’s father. 

From 1679 the King’s Head was the common 
headquarters of the notorious Green Ribbon 
Club, which included a precious set of scoun- 
drels among its members, chief of them all be- 
ing that astounding perjurer, Titus Oates. 
Hence the tavern’s designation as a ‘‘ Protest- 
ant house.’’ It was pulled down in 1799. 

Another immortal tavern of Fleet Street, the 
most immortal of them all, Ben Jonson’s Devil, 
has also utterly vanished. Its full title was 
The Devil and St. Dunstan, aptly represented 
by the sign depicting the saint holding the 
tempter by the nose, and its site, appropriately 
enough, was opposite St. Dunstan’s Church, on 
the south side of Fleet Street and close to Tem- 
ple-bar. One of Hogarth’s illustrations to 
‘* Hudibras ”’ gives a glimpse of the tavern, but 


94 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


on the wrong side of the street, as is so common 
in the work of that artist. 

No doubt the Devil had had a protracted ex- 
istence prior to Jonson’s day, but its chief title 
to fame dates from the time when the convivial 
dramatist made it his principal rendezvous. 


The exact date of that event is difficult to deter- 


mine. Nor is it possible to explain why Jonson 
removed his patronage from the Mermaid in 
Cheapside to the Devil in Fleet Street. The 
fact remains, however, that while the earlier 
period of his life has its focus in Cheapside the 
later is centred in the vicinity of Temple-bar. 
Perhaps Jonson may have found the accom- 
modation of the Devil more suited to his needs. 
After passing through those years of opposi- 
tion which all great poets have to face, there 
came to him the crown of acknowledged leader- 
ship among the writers of his day. He accepted 
it willingly. He seems to have been tempera- 
mentally fitted to the post. He was, in fact, 
never so happy as when in the midst of a group 
of men who owned his pre-eminence. What 
was more natural, then, than that he should 
have conceived the idea of forming a club? 
And in the great Apollo room at the Devil he 
found the most suitable place of meeting. Over 
the door of this room, inscribed in gold letters 


TABLET AND BUST FROM THE DEVIL TAVERN. 


- 


We 


We 


vr 


Taverns of Fleet Street 95 


on a black ground, this poetical ere tins was 
displayed. 


“Welcome all who lead or follow 
To the Oracle of Apollo — 
Here he speaks out of his pottle, 
Or the tripos, his tower bottle: 
All his answers are divine, 
Truth itself doth flow in wine. 
Hang up all the poor hop-drinkers, 
Cries old Sam, the king of skinkers; 
He the half of life abuses, 
That sits watering with the Muses. 
Those dull girls no good can mean us; 
Wine it is the milk of Venus, 
And the poet’s horse accounted: 
Ply it, and you all are mounted. 
°Tis the true Pheebian liquor, 
Cheers the brains, makes wit the quicker. 
Pays all debts, cures all diseases, 
And at once three senses pleases. 
Welcome all who lead or follow, 
To the Oracle of Apollo.” 


That relic of the Devil still exists, carefully 
preserved in the banking establishment which 
occupies the site of the tavern; and with it, 
just as zealously guarded, is a bust of Jonson 
which stood above the verses. Inside the 
Apollo room was another poetical inscription, 
said to have been engraved in black marble. 


96 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


These verses were in the dramatist’s best 
Latin, and set forth the rules for his tavern 
academy. Much of their point is lost in the 
English version, which, however, deserves quo- 
tation for the sake of the inferences it suggests 
as to the conduct which was esteemed ‘‘ good 
form ’’ in Jonson’s club. 


“ As the fund of our pleasure, let each pay his shot, — 
Except some chance friend, whom a member brings 
in. 
Far hence be the sad, the lewd fop, and the sot; 
For such have the plagues of good company been. 


“Let the learned and witty, the jovial and gay, 
The generous and honest, compose our free state; 
And the more to exalt our delight whilst we stay, 
Let none be debarred from his choice female mate. 


“Let no scent offensive the chamber infest. 
Let fancy, not cost, prepare all our dishes. 
Let the caterer mind the taste of each guest, 
And the cook, in his dressing, comply with their 
wishes. 


“Let’s have no disturbance about taking places, 
To show your nice breeding, or out of vain pride. 
Let the drawers be ready with wine and fresh glasses, 
Let the waiters have eyes, though their tongues must 
be ty’d. 


“Let our wines without mixture or stum, be all fine, 
Or call up the master, and break his dull noddle. 


Taverns of Fleet Street 97 
SS A 
Let no sober bigot here think it a sin, 

To push on the chirping and moderate bottle. 


** Let the contests be rather of books than of wine, 
Let the company be neither noisy nor mute, 

Let none of things serious, much less of divine, 
When belly and head’s full profanely dispute. 


“Tet no saucy fidler presume to intrude, 
Unless he is sent for to vary our bliss. 

With mirth, wit, and dancing, and singing conclude, 
To regale every sense, with delight in excess. 


* Let raillery be without malice or heat. 
Dull poems to read let none privilege take. 
Let no poetaster command or intreat 
Another extempore verses to make. 


* Let argument bear no unmusical sound, 

Nor jars interpose, sacred friendship to grieve. 
For generous lovers let a corner be found, 

Where they in soft sighs may their passions relieve. 


* Like the old Lapithites, with the goblets to fight, 
Our own *mongst offences unpardoned will rank, 

Or breaking of windows, or glasses, for spight, 
And spoiling the goods for a rakehelly prank. 


“Whoever shall publish what’s said, or what’s done, 
Be he banished for ever our assembly divine. 

Let the freedom we take be perverted by none 
To make any guilty by drinking good wine,” 


98 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


By the testimony of those rules alone it is 
easy to see how thoroughly the masterful spirit 
of Jonson ruled in the Apollo room. His chair 
was a throne, his word a sceptre that must be 
obeyed. This impression is confirmed by many 
records and especially by Drummond’s charac- 
ter sketch. The natural consequence was that 
membership in the Apollo Club came to be re- 
garded as an unusual honour. There appears 
to have been some kind of ceremony at the in- 
itiation of each new member, which gave all the 
greater importance to the rite of being ‘‘ sealed 
of the tribe of Ben.’’ Long after the dramatist 
was dead, his ‘‘ sons ’’ boasted of their inti- 
macy with him, much to the irritation of Dry- 
den and others. While he lived, too, they were 
equally elated at being admitted to the inner 
circle at the Devil, and, after the manner of 
Marmion, sung the praises of their ‘‘ boon Del- 
phic god,’’ surrounded with his ‘‘ incense and 
his altars smoking.’’ 

Incense was an essential if Jonson was to 
be kept in good humour. Many anecdotes tes- 
tify to that fact. There is the story of his loss 
of patience with the country gentleman who 
was somewhat talkative about his lands, and 
his interruption, ‘‘ What signifies to us your 
dirt and your clods? Where you have an acre 


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Taverns of Fleet Street 99 


of land, I have ten acres of wit.’? And Howell 
tells of that supper party which, despite good 
company, excellent cheer and choice wines, was 
turned into a failure by Jonson engrossing all 
the conversation and ‘‘ vapouring extremely of 
himself and vilifying others.’’ Yet there were 
probably few of his own circle, the ‘‘ sons of 
Ben,’’ who would have had it otherwise. Few 
indeed and fragmentary are the records of his 
conversation in the Apollo room, but they are 
sufficient to prove how ready a wit the poet 
possessed. Take, for example, the story of that 
convivial gathering when the tavern keeper 
promised to forgive Jonson the reckoning if 
he could tell what would please God, please the 
devil, please the company, and please him. The 
poet at once replied: 


“God is pleased, when we depart from sin, 
The devil’s pleas’d, when we persist therein ; 
Your company’s pleas’d, when you draw good wine, 
And thou’d be pleas’d, if I would pay thee thine.” 


Some austere biographers have chided the 
memory of the poet for spending so much of 
his time at the Devil. They forget, or are ig- 
norant of the fact that there is proof the time 
was well spent. In a manuscript of Jonson 
which still exists there are many entries which 


100 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


go to show that some of his finest work was 
inspired by the merry gatherings in the Apollo 
room. 

For many years after Jonson’s death the 
Devil, and especially the Apollo room, contin- 
ued in high favour with the wits of London and 
the men about town. Pepys knew the house, 
of course, and so did Evelyn, and Swift dined 
there, and Steele, and many another genius of 
the eighteenth century. It was in the Apollo 
room, too, that the official court-day odes of 
the Poets Laureate were rehearsed, which ex- 
plains the point of the following lines: 


“When Laureates make odes, do you ask of what sort? 
Do you ask if they’re good or are evil? 
You may judge— From the Devil they come to the 
Court, 
And go from the court to the Devil.” 


But the Apollo room is not without its idyllic 
memory. It was created by the ever-delightful 
pen of Steele. Who can forget the picture he 
draws of his sister Jenny and her lover Tran- 
quillus and their wedding morning? ‘‘ The 
wedding,’’ he writes, ‘‘ was wholly under my 
eare. After the ceremony at church, I resolved 
to entertain the company with a dinner suitable 
to the occasion, and pitched upon the Apollo, 


Taverns of Fleet Street 101 


at the Old Devil at Temple-bar, as a place sa- 
ered to mirth tempered with discretion, where 
Ben Jonson and his sons used to make their 
liberal meetings.’’ The mirth of that assembly 
was threatened by the indiscretion of that 
double-meaning speaker who is usually in evi- 
dence at such gatherings to the confusion of the 
bride, but happily his career was cut short by 
the plain sense of the soldier and sailor, as 
may be read in the pages of the ‘‘ Tatler.’’ 

Within easy hail of the Devil, on the site now 
occupied by St. Clement’s Chambers, Dane’s 
Inn, there stood until 1853 a quaint old hostelry 
known as the Angel Inn. It dated from the 
opening years of the sixteenth century at least, 
for it is specifically named in a letter of Feb- 
ruary 6th, 1503. In the middle of that century, 
too,.it figures in the progress of Bishop Harper 
to the martyr’s stake, for it was from this inn 
that prelate was taken to Gloucester to be 
burnt. The Angel cannot hope to compete with 
_ the neighbouring taverns of Fleet Street on the 
score of literary associations, but the fact that 
seven or eight mail coaches started from its | 
yard every night will indicate how large a part 
it played in the life of old London. 


CHAPTER IV 
TAVERNS WEST OF TEMPLE BAR 


Even one short generation ago it would have 
been difficult to recognize in the Strand of that 
period any resemblance to the picture of that 
highway given by Stow at the dawn of the 
seventeenth century. Much less would it have 
been possible to recall its aspect in those ear- 
lier years when it was literally a strand, that 
is, a low-lying road by the side of the Thames, 
stretching from Temple-bar to Charing Cross. 
On the south side of the thoroughfare were the 
mansions of bishops and nobles dotted at 
sparse intervals; on the north was open coun- 
try. ‘To-day there are even fewer survivals of 
the past than might have been seen thirty years 
ago. The wholesale clearance of Holywell 
Street and the buildings to the north has com- 
pletely transformed the neighbourhood, while 
along the southern line of the highway, changes 
almost equally revolutionary have been carried 
out. As a consequence the inns and taverns 
of the Strand and the streets leading therefro 

102 , 


Taverns West of Temple Bar 103 


have nearly all been swept away, leaving a mod- 
ern representative only here and there. 

Utterly vanished, for example, leaving not a 
wreck behind, are the Spotted Dog and the 
Craven Head, two houses more or less associ- 
ated with the sporting fraternity. The former, 
indeed, was a favourite haunt of prize-fighters 
and their backers; the latter was notorious for 
its host, Robert Hales by name, whose unusual 
stature — he stood seven feet six inches — en- 
abled him ‘‘ to look down on all his customers, 
although he was always civil to them.’’ When 
the novelty of Hales’ physical proportions wore 
off, and trade declined, a new attraction was 
provided in the form of a couple of buxom bar- 
maids attired in bloomer costume — importa- 
tions, so the story goes, from the United 
States. 

A far more ancient and reputable house was 
the Crown and Anchor which had entrances 
both on the Strand and Arundel Street. It is 
referred to by Strype in his edition of Stow, 
published in 1720, as ‘‘a large and curious 
house, with good rooms and other conve- 
niences,’’ and could boast of associations with 
Johnson, and Boswell, and Reynolds. Perhaps 
there was something in the atmosphere of the 
place which tended to emphasize Johnson’s 


104 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


natural argumentativeness; at any rate the 
Crown and Anchor was the scene of his dispute 
with Reynolds as to the merits of wine in assist- 
ing conversation, and it was here too that he 
had his famous bout with Dr. Percy. Boswell 
describes him as being in ‘‘ remarkable vigour 
of mind, and eager to exert himself in conver- 
sation ’’ on that occasion, and then transcribes 
the following proof. ‘‘ He was vehement 
against old Dr. Mounsey, of Chelsea College, 
as ‘a fellow who swore and talked bawdy.’ 
‘I have been often in his company,’ said Dr. 
Percy, ‘and never heard him swear or talk 
bawdy.’ Mr. Davies, who sat next to Dr. Percy, 
having after this had some conversation with 
him, made a discovery which in his zeal to pay 
court to Dr. Johnson, he eagerly proclaimed 
aloud from the foot of the table: ‘ Oh, sir, I 
have found out a very good reason why Dr. 
Percy never heard Mounsey swear or talk 
bawdy, for he tells me he never saw him but 
at the Duke of Northumberland’s table.’ ‘ And 
so, sir,’ said Dr. Johnson loudly to Dr. Perey, 
‘you would shield this man from the charge of 
swearing and talking bawdy, because he did not 
do so at the Duke of Northumberland’s table. 
Sir, you might as well tell us that you had seen 
him hold up his hand at the Old Bailey, and 


Taverns West of Temple Bar 105 


he neither swore nor talked bawdy; or that 
you had seen him in the cart at Tyburn, and 
‘he neither swore nor talked bawdy. And is it 
thus, sir, that you presume to controvert what 
I have related?’ Dr. Johnson’s animadversion 
was uttered in such a manner, that Dr. Percy 
seemed to be displeased, and soon after left the 
company, of which Johnson did not at that time 
take any notice.’’ Nor did the following morn- 
ing bring any regret. ‘‘ Well,’’ said he when 
Boswell called, ‘‘ we had good talk.’? And 
Boswell’s ‘‘ Yes, sir; you tossed and gored 
several persons’’ no doubt gave him much 
pleasure. 

When the Crown and Anchor was rebuilt in 
1790 the accommodation of the tavern was ma- 
terially increased by the erection of a large 
room suitable for important public occasions 
and capable of seating upwards of two thou- 
sand persons. That room was but eight years 
old when it was the scene of a remarkable gath- 
ering. Those were stirring times politically, 
largely owing to Fox’s change of party and to 
his adhesion to the cause of electoral reform. 
Hence the banquet which took place at the 
Crown and Anchor on January 24th, 1798, in 
honour of Fox’s birthday. The Duke of Nor- 
folk presided over a company numbering fully 


106 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


two thousand persons, and the notable men 
present included Sheridan and Horne Tooke. 
The. record of the function tells how ‘‘ Captain 
Morris ’?— elder brother of the author of 
‘* Kitty Crowder,’’ and a song-writer of some 
fame in his day — ‘‘ produced three new songs 
on the occasion,’’ and how ‘‘ Mr. Hovell, Mr. 
Robinson, Mr. Dignum, and several other gen- 
tlemen, in the different rooms sang songs ap- 
plicable to the féte.’’ But the ducal chairman’s 
speech and the toasts which followed were the 
features of the gathering. The former was 
commendably brief. ‘‘ We are met,’’ he said, 
‘‘ in a moment of most serious difficulty, to cele- 
brate the birth of a man dear to the friends of 
freedom. I shall only recall to your memory, 
that, not twenty years ago, the illustrious 
George Washington had not more than two 
thousand men to rally round him when his coun- 
try was attacked. America is now free. This 
day full two thousand men are assembled in 
this place. I leave you to make the applica- 
tion. I propose to you the health of Charles 
ROX? 

Then came the following daring toasts: 

‘<The rights of the people.”’ 

‘‘ Constitutional redress of the wrongs of © 
the people.’’ 


Taverns West of Temple Bar 107 


‘‘ A speedy and effectual reform in the rep- 
resentation of the people in Parliament.’’ 

‘‘ The genuine principles of the British con- 
stitution. ’’ 

‘‘'The people of Ireland; and may they be 
speedily restored to the blessings of law and 
liberty.’’ 

And when the chairman’s health had been 
drunk ‘‘ with three times three,’’ that noble- 
man concluded his speech of thanks with the 
words: ‘‘ Before I sit down, give me leave to 
eall on you to drink our sovereign’s health: 
‘The majesty of the people.’ ”’ 

Such ‘‘ seditious and daring tendencies,’’ as 
the royalist chronicler of the times described 
them, could not be overlooked in high quarters, 
and the result of that gathering at the Crown 
and Anchor was that the Duke of Norfolk was 
dismissed from the lord-lieutenancy of the west 
riding of Yorkshire, and from his regiment in 
the militia. It would have been a greater pun- 
ishment could George IIT have ordered a bath 
for the indiscreet orator. That particular 
member of the Howard family had a horror 
of soap and water, and appears to have been 
washed only when his servants found him help- 
less in a drunken stupor. He it was also who 
complained to Dudley North that he had vainly 


‘08 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


tried every remedy for rheumatism, to receive 
the answer, ‘‘ Pray, my lord, did you ever try 
a clean shirt? ’’ 

In that district of the Strand known as the 
Adelphi — so called from the pile of buildings 
erected here in 1768 by the brothers Adam — 
there still exists an Adelphi Hotel which may 
well perpetuate the building in which Gibbon 
found a temporary home in 1787. Ten years 
earlier it was known as the Adelphi Tavern, 
and on the thirteenth of January was the scene 
of an exciting episode. The chief actors in this 
little drama, which nearly developed into a 
tragedy, were a Captain Stony and a Mr. Bates, 
the latter being the editor of The Morning Post. 
It appears that that journal had recently pub- 
lished some paragraphs reflecting on the char- 
acter of a lady of rank, whose cause, as the 
sequel will show, Captain Stony had good rea- 
son for making his own. Whether the offend- 
ing editor had been lured to the Adelphi igno- 
rant of what was in store, or whether the angry 
soldier met him there by accident, does not 
transpire; the record implies, however, that 
the couple had a room to themselves in which 
to settle accounts. The conflict opened with 
each discharging his pistol at the other, but 
without effect, which does not speak well for 


Taverns West of Temple Bar 109 


the marksmanship of either. Then they took 
to their swords, with the result of the captain 
receiving wounds in the breast and arm and 
Mr. Bates a thrust in the thigh, clearly demon- © 
strating that at this stage the man of the pen 
had the better of the man of the sword. And 
he maintained the advantage. For a little later 
the editor’s weapon ‘‘ bent and slanted against 
the captain’s breast-bone.’’? On having his at- 
tention called to the fact the soldier agreed that 
Mr. Bates should straighten his blade. At this 
critical moment, however, while, indeed, the 
journalist had his sword under his foot, the 
door of the room was broken open and the 
combatants separated. ‘‘ On the Sunday fol- 
lowing,’’ so the sequel reads, ‘‘ Captain Stony 
was married to the lady in whose behalf he 
had thus hazarded his life.’’ 

Duels were so common in those days that 
Gibbon probably heard nothing about the fight 
in the Adelphi when he took rooms there one 
hot August day in 1787. Besides, he had more 
important matters to occupy his thoughts. 
Only six weeks had passed since, between the 
hours of eleven and twelve at night, he had, 
in the summer house of his garden at Laus- 
sanne, written the last sentence of ‘‘ The De- 
cline and Fall of the Roman Empire,’’ and now 


110 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


he had arrived in London with the final instal- 
ment of the manuscript on which he had be- 
stowed the labour of nearly twenty years. The 
heightened mood. he experienced on the com- 
pletion of his memorable task may well have 
persisted to the hour of his arrival in London. 
Some reflection of that feeling perhaps under- 
lay the jocular announcement of his letter from 
the Adelphi to Lord Sheffield, wherein he 
wrote: ‘‘ INTELLIGENCE ExtTraorpINary. ‘This 
day (August the seventh) the celebrated EH. G. 
arrived with a numerous retinue (one servant). 
We hear that he has brought over from Lau- 
sanne the remainder of his History for im- 
mediate publication.’’ Gibbon remained at the 
Adelphi for but a few days, after which the 
story of the tavern lapses into the happiness 
which is supposed to accrue from a lack of his- 
tory. 

Before retracing his steps to explore the 
many interesting thoroughfares which branch 
off from the Strand, the pilgrim should con- 
tinue on that highway to its western extremity 
at Charing Cross. The memory of several 
famous inns is associated with that locality, 
including the Swan, the Golden Cross, Locket’s, 
and the Rummer. The first named dated from ~ 
the fifteenth century. It survived sufficiently, 


Taverns West of Temple Bar 111 


long to be frequented by Ben Jonson and is the 
subject of an anecdote told of that poet. Being 
called upon to make an extemporary grace be- 
fore King James, and having ended his last 
line but one with the word ‘‘ safe,’’ Jonson fin- 
ished with the words, ‘‘ God blesse me, and 
God blesse Raph.’’ The inquisitive monarch 
naturally wanted to know who Ralph was, and 
the poet replied that he was ‘‘ the drawer at 
the Swanne Taverne by Charing Crosse, who 
drew him good Canarie.’’ It is feasible to con- 
clude that no small portion of the hundred 
pounds with which the king rewarded Jonson 
was expended on that ‘‘ good Canarie.’’ And 
perhaps Ralph was not forgotten. 

By name, at any rate, the Golden Cross is still 
in existence, but the present building dates no 
farther back than 1832. Of Locket’s ordinary, 
however, no present-day representative exists. 
When Leigh Hunt wrote ‘‘ The Town ’’ he de- 
elared that it was no longer known where it 
exactly stood, but more recent investigators 
have discovered that Drummond’s banking 
house covers its site. 

As was the case with Pontack’s in the city, 
Locket’s was pre-eminently the resort of the 
‘¢ smart set.’’ The prices charged are proof 
enough of that, even though they were not al- 


112 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


ways paid. The case of Sir George Ethrege 
is one in point. That dissolute dramatist and 
diplomat of the Restoration period was a 
frequent customer at Locket’s until his debt 
there became larger than his means to dis- 
charge it. Before that catastrophe overtook 
him he was the principal actor in a lively scene © 
at the tavern. Something or other caused an 
outbreak of fault-finding one evening, and the 
commotion brought Mrs. Locket on the scene. 
‘< We are all so provoked,’’ said Sir George to 
the lady, ‘‘ that even I could find in my heart 
to pull the nosegay out of your bosom, and 
throw the flowers in your face.’’ 

Nor was that the only humourous threat 
against Mrs. Locket from the same mouth. 
Probably because he was so good a customer 
and an influential man about town, his indebt- 
edness to the ordinary was allowed to mount 
up until it reached a formidable figure. And 
then Sir George stopped his visits. Mrs. 
Locket, however, sent some one to dun him for 
the money and to threaten him with prosecu- 
tion. But that did not daunt the wit. He bade 
the messenger tell Mrs. Locket that he would 
kiss her if she stirred in the matter. Sir 
George’s command was duly obeyed. It stirred 
Mrs. Locket to action. Calling for her hood 


Taverns West of Temple Bar 113 


and scarf, and declaring that she would see if 
‘‘ there was any fellow alive that had the im- 
pudence,’’ she was about to set out to put the 
matter to the test when her husband restrained 
her with his ‘‘ Pr’ythee, my dear, don’t be so 
rash, you don’t know what a man may do in 
his passion.”’ | 

It is not difficult to understand how the bill 
of Sir George Ethrege reached such alarming 
proportions. ‘‘ They shall compose you a 
dish,’’ is a contemporary reference, ‘‘ no bigger 
than a saucer, shall come to fifty shillings.’’ 
And again, 


* At Locket’s, Brown’s, and at Pontack’s enquire 
What modish kickshaws the nice beaux desire, 
What fam’d ragouts, what new invented sallat, 
Has best pretensions to regale the palate.” 


Adam Locket, the founder of the house, lived 
until about 1688, and was succeeded by his son 
Edward who was at the head of affairs until 
1702. All through the reign of Queen Anne the 
ordinary flourished, but after her death refer- 
ences to it become scanty and finally it disap- 
peared so completely that Leigh Hunt, as has 
been said, was in ignorance as to its site. 

And Hunt also owned to not knowing the 
site of another Charing Cross tavern, the Rum- 


114 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


mer. Asa matter of fact that, to modern ear, 
curiously-named tavern was at first located al- 
most next door to Locket’s, whence it was re- 
moved to the waterside in 1710 and burnt down 
in 1750. The memory of the tavern would 
probably have sunk into oblivion with its 
charred timbers, save for the accident of its 
connection with Matthew Prior. For the Rum- 
mer was kept by an uncle of the future poet, 
into whose keeping he is supposed to have 
fallen on the death of his father. One cannot 
resist the suspicion that this uncle, Samuel 
Prior by name, was of a shifty nature. He 
had serious enemies, that is certain. The best 
proof of that fact is the announcement he in- 
serted in the London Gazette offering a reward 
of ten guineas for the discovery of the persons 
who spread the report that he was in league 
with the clippers of coin. Then there is the 
nephew’s portrait, which implies that his tav- 
ern-keeping relative was an adept in the tricks 
of his trade. 


“My uncle, rest his soul! when living, 
Might have contrived me ways of thriving; 
Taught me with cider to replenish 
My vats, or ebbing tide of Rhenish; 
So, when for hock I drew pricked white-wine, 
Swear’t had the flavour, and was right-wine.” 


Taverns West of Temple Bar 115 


Destiny, however, had decided the nephew’s 
fate otherwise. The Earl of Dorset, so the 
story goes, was at the Rummer with a party 
one day when a dispute arose over a passage 
in Horace. Young Prior, then a scholar of 
Westminster, was called in to decide the point, 
and so admirably did he do it that the earl im- 
mediately undertook to pay his expenses at 
Cambridge. He, in fact, ‘‘ spoiled the youth 
to make a poet.’’ Annotators of Hogarth have 
pointed out that the scene of his ‘‘ Night ’’ pic- 
ture was laid in that district of Charing Cross 
where Locket’s and the Rummer were situ- 
ated. 

Harking back now to Drury Lane the ex- 
plorer finds himself in the midst of the mem- 
ories of many daring adventures. The Jacob- 
ites who aimed at the dethroning of William 
III were responsible for one of those episodes. 
During the absence of that monarch they tried 
to raise a riot in London on the birthday of the 
Prince of Wales. Macaulay tells the rest of 
the story. ‘‘ They met at a tavern in Drury 
Lane, and, when hot with wine, sallied forth 
sword in hand, headed by Porter and Goodman, 
beat kettledrums, unfurled banners, and began 
to light bonfires. But the watch, supported by 
the populace, was too strong for the revellers. 


116 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


They were put to rout: the tavern where they 
had feasted was sacked by the mob: the ring- 
leaders were apprehended, tried, fined, and im- 
prisoned, but regained their liberty in time to 
bear a part in a far more criminal design.”’ 
Noisy brawls and dark deeds became com- 
mon in Drury Lane. It was the haunt of such 
quarrelsome persons as that Captain Fantom, 
who, coming out of the Horseshoe Tavern late 
one night, was offended by the loud jingling 
spurs of a lieutenant he met, and forthwith 
challenged him to a duel and killed him. And 
the tavern-keepers of Drury Lane were not 
always model citizens. There was that Jack 
Grimes, for example, whose death in Holland 
in 1769 recalled the circumstance that he was 
known as ‘‘ Lawyer Grimes,’’ and formerly 
kept the Nag’s Head Tavern in Princes’ Street, 
Drury Lane, ‘‘ and was transported several 
years ago for fourteen years, for receiving fish, 
knowing them to be stolen.’’ There is, how- 
ever, one relieving touch in the tavern history 
of this thoroughfare. One of its houses of pub- 
lic entertainment was the meeting-place of a 
club of virtuosi, for whose club-room Louis La- 
guerre, the French painter who settled in Lon- 
don in 1683, designed and executed a Baccha- 
nalian procession. This was the artist who was 


Taverns West of Temple Bar 117 


coupled with Verrio in Pope’s depreciatory 
line, 


“Where sprawl the Saints of Verrio and Laguerre.” . 


Poets and prose writers alike were wont to 
agree in giving Catherine Street an unenviable 
reputation. Gay is specially outspoken in his 
description of that thoroughfare and the class 
by which it used to be haunted. It was in this 
street, too, that Jessop’s once flourished, ‘‘ the 
most disreputable night house of London.’’ 
That nest of iniquity, however, has long been 
cleared away, and there are no means of iden- 
tifying that tavern of which Boswell speaks. 
He describes it, on the authority of Dr. John- 
son, as a *‘ pretty good tavern, where very good 
company met in an evening, and each man 
called for his own half-pint of wine, or gill if 
he pleased; they were frugal men, and nobody 
paid but for what he himself drank. The house 
furnished no supper; but a woman attended 
with mutton pies, which anybody might pur- 
chase.’’ 

If the testimony of Pope is to be trusted, the 
cuisine of the Bedford Head, which was de- 
scribed in 1736 as ‘‘ a noted tavern for eating, 
drinking, and gaming, in Southampton Street, 
Covent Garden,’’ was decidedly out of the or- 


118 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


dinary. In his imitation of the second satire 
of Horace he makes Oldfield, the notorious 
glutton who exhausted a fortune of fifteen hun- 
dred pounds a year in the ‘‘ ahs luxury of 
good eating,’’ declare, 


“Let me extol a Cat, on oysters fed, 
V’ll have a party at the Bedford-head.” 


And in another poem he asks, 


“When sharp with hunger, scorn you to be fed, 
Except on pea-chicks at the Bedford-head? ” 


There is an earlier reference to this house than 
the one cited above, for an advertisement of 
June, 1716, alludes to it as ‘‘ the Duke of Bed- 
ford’s Head Tavern in Southampton Street, 
Covent Garden.’’ Perhaps the most notable 
event in its history was it being the scene of 
an abortive attempt to repeat in 1741 that glori- 
fication of Admiral Vernon which was a great 
suecess in 1740. That seaman, it will be re- 
membered, had in 1739 kept his promise to cap- 
ture Porto Bello with a squadron of but six 
ships. That the capture was effected with the 
loss of but seven men made the admiral a pop- 
ular hero, and in the following year his birth- 
day was celebrated in London with great ac- 


Taverns West of Temple Bar 119 


claim. But in 1740 his attempt to seize Carta- 
gena ended in complete failure, and another 
enterprise against Santiago came to a similar 
result. All this, however, did not daunt his 
personal friends, who wished to engineer 
another demonstration in Vernon’s honour. 
Horace Walpole tells how the attempt failed. 
** I believe I told you,’’ he wrote to one of 
his friends, ‘‘ that Vernon’s birthday passed 
quietly, but it was not designed to be pacific; 
for at twelve at night, eight gentlemen dressed 
like sailors, and masked, went round Covent 
Garden with a drum beating for a volunteer 
mob; but it did not take; and they retired to 
a great supper that was prepared for them at 
the Bedford Head, and ordered by Whitehead, 
the author of ‘ Manners.’ ’’ At a later date it 
was the meeting-place of a club to which John 
Wilkes belonged. 

In all London there is probably no thorough- 
fare of equal brief length which can boast so 
many deeply interesting associations as Maiden 
Lane, which stretches between Southampton 
and Bedford Streets in the vicinity of Covent 
Garden. Andrew Marvell had lodgings here in 
1677; Voltaire made it his headquarters on his 
visit to London in 1727; it was the scene of the 
birth of Joseph Mallord William Turner in 


120 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


1775; and while one tavern was the rendezvous 
of the conspirators against the life of William 
III, another was the favourite haunt of Rich- 
ard Porson, than whom there is hardly a more 
illustrious name in the annals of English clas- 
sical scholarship. 
While the name of the conspirators’ tavern 
is not mentioned by Macaulay, that frequented 
by Porson had wide fame under the sign of the 
Cider Cellars. It had been better for the great 
scholar’s health had nothing but cider been 
sold therein. But that would hardly have 
suited his tastes. It is a kindly judgment which 
asserts that he would have achieved far more 
than he actually did ‘‘ if the sobriety of his life 
had been equal to the honesty and truthfulness 
of his character.’’ All accounts agree that the 
charms of his society in such gatherings as 
those at the Cider Cellars were irresistible. 
‘* Nothing,’’ was the testimony of one friend, 
‘‘ could be more gratifying than a téte-a-téte 
with him; his recitations from Shakespeare, 
and his ingenious etymologies and dissertations 
-on the roots of the English language were a 
high treat.’? And another declares thet noth- 
ing ‘‘ came amiss to his memory; he would set 
a child right in his twopenny fable-book, repeat 
the whole of the moral tale of the Dean of 


Taverns West of Temple Bar 121 


Badajos, or a page of Athenzus on cups, or 
EKustathius on Homer.’’ One anecdote tells of 
his repeating the ‘‘ Rape of the Lock,’’ making 
observations as he went on, and noting the 
various readings. And an intimate friend re- 
cords the following incident connected with the 
tavern he held most in regard. ‘‘ I have heard 
Professor Porson at the Cider Cellars in 
Maiden Lane recite from memory to delighted 
listeners the whole of Anstey’s ‘ Pleaders’ 
Guide.’ He concluded by relating that when 
buying a copy of it and complaining that the 
price was very high, the bookseller said, ‘ Yes, 
sir, but you know Law books are always very 
dear.’ ”’ 

Somewhat earlier than Porson’s day another 
convivial soul haunted this neighbourhood. 
This was George Alexander Stevens, the stroll- 
ing player who eventually attained a place in 
the company of Covent Garden theatre. He 
was an indifferent actor but an excellent lec- 
turer. One of his discourses, a lecture on 
Heads, was immensely popular in England, and 
not less so in Boston and Philadelphia. Prior 
to the affluence which he won by his lecture 
tours he had frequently to do ‘‘ penance in 
jail for the debts of the tavern.’’ He was, as 
Campbell says, a leading member of all the 


122 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


a RR A RS RES ad RESIN SSUES Sree So | 
great Bacchanalian clubs of his day, and had 
no mean gift in writing songs in praise of hard 
drinking. One of these deserves a better fate 
than the oblivion into which it has fallen, and 
may be cited here as eminently descriptive of 
the scenes enacted nightly in such a resort as 
the Cider Cellars. | 


““ Contented I am, and contented I’ll be, 
For what can this world more afford, 
Than a lass that will sociably sit on my knee, 
And a cellar as sociably stored, 
My brave boys. 


“My vault door is open, descend and improve, 
That cask, — ay, that will we try. 
*Tis as rich to the taste as the lips of your love, 
And as bright as her cheeks to the eye: 
My brave boys. 


In a piece of slit hoop, see my candle is stuck, 
*T will light us each bottle to hand; 
The foot of my glass for the purpose I broke, 
As I hate that a bumper should stand, 
My brave boys. 


“ Astride on a butt, as a butt should be strod, 
I gallop the brusher along; 
Like a grape-blessing Bacchus, the good fellow’s god, 
And a sentiment give, or a song, 
My brave boys. 


Taverns West of Temple Bar ; 123 


“We are dry where we sit, though the coying drops 
seem 
With pearls the moist walls to emboss; 
From the arch mouldy cobwebs in gothic taste stream, | 
Like stucco-work cut out of moss: 
My brave boys. 


‘When the lamp is brimful, how the taper flame shines, 
Which, when moisture is wanting, decays; 
Replenish the lamp of my life with rich wines, 
Or else there’s an end of my blaze, 
My brave boys. 


“Sound those pipes, they’re in tune, and those bins 
are well fill’d; 
View that heap of old Hock in your rear; 
Yon bottles are Burgundy! mark how they’re pil’d, 
Like artillery, tier over tier, 
My brave boys. 


“My cellar’s my camp, and my soldiers my flasks, 
All gloriously rang’d in review; 
When I cast my eyes round, I consider my casks 
As kingdoms I’ve yet to subdue, 
My brave boys. 


* Like Macedon’s Madman, my glass I’ll enjoy, 
Defying hyp, gravel, or gout; 
He cried when he had no more worlds to destroy, 
I’ll weep when my liquor is out, 
My brave boys. 


124 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


* On their stumps some have fought, and as stoutly 
will I, ; 
When reeling, I roll on the floor; 
Then my legs must be lost, so I’ll drink as I lie, 
And dare the best Buck to do more, 
My brave boys. 


“?Tis my will when I die, not a tear shall be shed, 
No Hie Jacet be cut on my stone; 
But pour on my coffin a bottle of red, 
And say that his drinking is done, 
My brave boys.” 


Although to-day celebrated chiefly for being 
the central clearing-house for the flower, fruit 
and vegetable supply of London, Covent Gar- 
den as a whole can vie with any other district 
of the British capital in wealth of interesting 
association. The market itself dates from the 
middle of the seventeenth century, but the area 
was constituted a parish a few years earlier. 
By that time, however, it could boast many 
town residences of the nobility, and several 
inns. One of these has its name preserved only 
in the records of the House of Lords, in a let- 
ter from a John Dutton at Amsterdam, who 
wrote to his brother ‘‘ with Mr. Wm. Wayte, 
at the sign of the Horseshoe, Covent Garden.’’ 
But the taverns of greater note, such as Chate- 
laine’s, the Fleece, the Rose, the Hummums, 


Taverns West of Temple Bar 125 


and Macklin’s ill-fated ordinary, belong to 
more recent times. 

Which of these houses was first established 
it would be hard to say. There can be no ques- 
tion, however, that Chatelaine’s ordinary was 
in great repute during the reign of Charles II, 
and that it continued in high favour throughout 
the latter years of the seventeenth century. 
Pepys alludes to it in 1667 and again in his 
entries of the following year. On the second 
occasion his visit interfered with toothsome 
purchases he was making for a dinner at his 
own house. ‘‘ To the fishmonger’s, and bought 
a couple of lobsters, and over to the ’sparagus 
garden, thinking to have met Mr. Pierce, and 
his wife, and Knipp; but met their servant 
coming to bring me to Chatelin’s, the French 
house, in Covent Garden, and there with mu- 
sick and good company, Manuel and his wife, 
and one Swaddle, a clerk of Lord Arlington’s, 
who dances, and speaks French well, but got 
drunk, and was then troublesome, and here 
mighty merry till ten at night. This night the 
Duke of Monmouth and a great many blades 
were at Chatelin’s, and I left them there, with 
a hackney-coach attending him.’’ This was a 
diffirent experience than fell to the lot of 
Pepys on the previous occasion, for he tells 


126 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


how the dinner cost the party eight shillings 
and sixpence apiece, and it was ‘‘ a base din- 
ner, which did not please us at all.’’ The or- 
dinary was evidently in the same class as Pon- 
tack’s and Locket’s, as may be inferred from 
it being classed with the latter in one contem- 
porary reference: 


*“* Next these we welcome such as firstly dine 
At Locket’s, at Gifford’s, or with Shataline.” 


Allusions in the plays of the period also show 
it was the resort of those who thought quite 
as much of spending money as of eating. 
Thus Shadwell makes one of his characters 
say of another who had risen in life that he 
was ‘‘ one that the other day could eat but one 
meal a day, and that at a threepenny ordinary, 
now struts in state and talks of nothing but 
Shattelin’s and Lefrond’s.’? And another 
dramatist throws some light on the character 
of its frequenters by the remark, ‘‘ Come, 
prettie, let’s go dine at Chateline’s, and there 
I'll tell you my whole business.’’ 

Far less fashionable was the Fleece tavern,. 
where Pepys found pleasant entertainment on 
several occasions. His earliest reference to — 
the house is in his account of meeting two gen- 
tlemen who told him how a Scottish knight was 


Taverns West of Temple Bar 127 


‘‘ killed basely the other day at the Fleece,’’ 
but that tale did not prevent him from visit- 
ing the tavern himself. Along with a ‘‘ Cap- 
tain Cuttle’’ and two others he went thither 
to drink, and ‘‘ there we spent till four o’clock, 
telling stories of Algiers, and the manner of 
life of slaves there.’’ And then he tells how 
one night he dropped in at the Opera for the 
last act ‘‘ and there found Mr. Sanchy and 
Mrs. Mary Archer, sister to the fair Betty, 
whom I did admire at Cambridge, and thence 
took them to the Fleece in Covent Garden; but 
Mr. Sanchy could not by any argument get his 
lady to trust herself with him into the taverne, 
which he was much troubled at.’’ 

Equally lively reputations were enjoyed by 
the Rose and the Hummums. The former was 
conveniently situated for first-nighters at the 
King’s Playhouse, as Pepys found on a May 
midday in 1668. Anxious to see the first per- 
formance of Sir Charles Sedley’s new play, 
which had been long awaited with great ex- 
pectation, he got to the theatre at-noon, only 
to find the doors not yet open. Gaining admis- 
sion shortly after he seems to have been con- 
tent to sit for a while and watch the gathering 
audience. But eventually the pangs of hunger 
mastered him, and so, getting a boy to keep 


128 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


his place, he slipped out to ‘‘ the Rose Tavern, 
and there got half a breast of mutton off the 
spit, and dined all alone.’’ Twenty years later 
the vicinity of the Rose gained an unenviable 
reputation. ‘‘ A man could not go from the 
Rose Tavern to the Piazza once, but he must 
venture his life twice.’? And it maintained 
that reputation well into the next century, 
growing ever more and more in favour with 
the gamblers and rufflers of the times. It was 
at the bar of this house that Hildebrand Hor- 
den, an actor of talent and one who promised 
to win a great name, was killed in a brawl. 
Colley Cibber tells that he was exceedingly 
handsome, and that before he was buried ‘‘ it 
was observable that two or three days together 
several of the fair sex, well dressed, came in 
masks, and some in their own coaches, to visit 
the theatrical hero in his shroud.’’ 

To the student of etymology the name of the 
Hummums tells its own tale. The word is a 
near approach to the Arabic ‘* Hammam,”’ 
meaning a hot bath, and hence implies an es- 
tablishment for bathing in the Oriental man- 
ner. The tavern in Covent Garden bearing 
that name was one of the first bathing estab- 
lishments founded in England, and the fact 
that it introduced a method of ablution which 


Taverns West of Temple Bar 129 


had its origin in a country of slavery prompted 
Leigh Hunt to reflect that Englishmen need 
not have wondered how Hastern nations could 
endure their servitude. ‘‘ This is one of the 
secrets by which they endure it. A free man 
in a dirty skin is not in so fit a state to endure 
existence as a slave with a clean one; because 
nature insists that a due attention to the clay 
which our souls inhabit shall be the first requi- 
site to the comfort of the inhabitant. Let us 
not get rid of our freedom; let us teach it 
rather to those that want it; but let such of 
us as have them, by all means get rid of our 
dirty skins. There is now a moral and intel- 
lectual commerce among mankind, as well as 
an interchange of inferior goods; we should 
send freedom to Turkey as well as clocks and 
watches, and import not only figs, but a fine 
state of pores.”’ 

John Wolcot, the satirist to whom, as Peter 
Pindar, nothing was sacred, and who surely 
had more accomplishments to fall back upon 
than ever poet had before, having been in turns 
doctor, clergyman, politician and painter, found 
a congenial resort at the Hummums when he 
established himself in London. He preserved 
the ‘nemory of the house in verse, but it is an 
open question whether his reflections on the 


130 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


horrible sounds of which he complains should 
be referred to Covent Garden or to the city 
he had abandoned. 


“In Covent Garden at the Hummums, now 

I sit, but after many a curse and vow, 

Never to see the madding City more; 
Where barrows truckling o’er the pavement roll: 
And, what is sorrow to a tuneful soul, 

Where asses, asses greeting, love songs roar; 
Which asses, that the Garden square adorn, 
Must lark-like be the heralds of my morn.” 


Those love songs have not ceased in Covent 
Garden; the amorous duets are to be heard 
to this day from the throats of countless cos- 
termongers’ donkeys. But they disturb Peter 
Pindar’s tuneful soul no more as he lies in his 
grave near by. 

It would be a grave injustice to the Hum- 
‘mums to overlook the fact that it possessed a 
ghost-story of its own. Its subject was Dr. 
Johnson’s cousin, the Parson Ford ‘‘ in whom 
both talents and good dispositions were dis- 
graced by licentiousness,’’ and the story was 
told to Boswell by Johnson himself. ‘‘ A 
waiter at the Hummums,’’ Johnson said, ‘‘ in 
which house Ford died, had been absent for 
some time, and returned, not knowing that 


Taverns West of Temple Bar 131 


Ford was dead. Going down to the cellar, ac- 
cording to the story, he met him; going down 
again, he met him a second time. When he 
came up he asked some of the people of the 
house what Ford could be doing there. They 
told him Ford was dead. The waiter took a 
fever, in which he lay for some time. When 
he recovered, he said he had a message to de- 
liver to some women from Ford; but he was 
not to tell what or to whom. He walked out; 
he was followed; but somewhere about St. 
Paul’s they lost him. He came back and said 
he had delivered it, and the women exclaimed, 
‘Then we are all undone!’ Dr. Pellet, who 
was not a credulous man, inquired into the 
truth of this story, and he said the evidence 
was irresistible.’’ A tantalizing ghost-story 
this, and one that begets regret that the So- 
ciety for Psychical Research did not enter on 
its labours a century or so earlier. 

One other tavern, or ordinary, of unusual 
interest spent its brief career of less than a 
year under the Piazza of Covent Garden. It 
was the experiment of Charles Macklin, an 
eighteenth century actor of undoubted talent 
and just as undoubted conceit and eccentricity. 
He liad reached rather more than the midway 
of his long life — he was certainly ninety-seven 


132 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


| 
when he died and may have been a hundred — 
when he resolved to leave the stage and carry 
out an idea over which he had long ruminated. 
This was nothing less than the establishment 
of what he grandiloquently called the British 
Institution. 

So much in earnest was Macklin that he ac- 
cepted a farewell benefit at Drury Lane thea- 
tre, at which he recited a good-bye prologue 
commending his daughter to the favour of play- 
goers. In the greenroom that night, when re- 
grets were expressed at the loss of so admirable 
an actor, Foote remarked, ‘‘ You need not fear; 
he will first break in business, and then break 
his word.’’ And Foote did not a little to make 
his prophecy come true. For a part of Mack- 
lin’s scheme, whereby he was to instruct the 
public and fill his own pockets at the same time, 
was a lecture-room on the ‘‘ plan of the ancient 
Greek, Roman, and Modern French and Italian 
Societies of liberal investigation.’’ Macklin 
appointed himself the instructor in chief, and 
there was hardly a subject under the sun upon 
which he was not prepared to enlighten the 
British public at the moderate price of ‘‘ one 
shilling each person.’’ The first two or three 
lectures were a success. Then the novelty wore 


Taverns West of Temple Bar 133 


off and opposition began. Foote set up a rival 
oratory and devoted himself to the simple task 
of burlesquing that of Macklin. He would im- 
personate Macklin in his armchair, examining 
a pupil in classics after this fashion. 

‘¢ Well, sir, did you ever hear of Aristoph- 
anes? ’’ 

“Yes, sir; a Greek Dramatist, who 
wrote — ”’ 

‘¢ Ay; but I have got twenty comedies in 
these drawers, worth his Clouds and stuff. Do 
you know anything of Cicero? ’’ 

‘‘ A celebrated Orator of Rome, who in the 
polished and persuasive is considered a master 
in his art.’’ 

“* Yes, yes; but I’ll be bound he couldn’t 
teach Elocution.’’ 

Of course all this raillery was more attract- 
ive to the public than Macklin’s serious and 
pedagogic dissertations. The result may be 
imagined. Foote’s oratory was crowded; 
Macklin’s empty. 

But that was not the worst. Another fea- 
ture of the British Institution was the estab- 
lishment of the ordinary aforesaid. The pros- 
pectus of the Institution bore this notice: 
‘¢ Tiere is a public ordinary every day at four 


134 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


o’clock, price three shillings. Hach person to 
drink port, claret, or whatever liquor he shall 
choose.’’ A disastrous precursor of the free 
lunch this would seem. And soit proved. But 
not immediately. Attracted by the novelty of 
having a famous actor for host, the ordinary 
went swimmingly for a time. Macklin presided 
in person. As soon asthe door of the room 
was shut — a bell rang for five minutes, a fur- 
ther ten minutes’ grace was given, and then 
no more were admitted — the late actor bore 
in the first dish and then took his place at the 
elaborate sideboard to superintend further op- 
erations. Dinner over, and the bottles and 
glasses placed on the table, ‘‘ Macklin, quitting 
his former situation, walked gravely up to the 
front of the table and hoped ‘ that all things 
were found agreeable; ’ after which he passed 
the bell-rope round the chair of the person who 
happened to sit at the head of the table, and, 
making a low bow at the door, retired.’’ He 
retired to read over the notes of the lecture 
he had prepared for these same guests, and 
during his absence for the rest of the evening 
his waiters and cooks seized the opportunity 
to reap their harvest. The sequel of the tale 
was soon told in the bankruptcy court, and 
Macklin went back to the stage, as Foote said 


Taverns West of Temple Bar 135 


he would. And now he lies peacefully enough 
in his grave in the Covent Garden St. Paul’s, 
within stone’s throw of the scene where he 
tried to be a tavern-keeper and failed. 


CHAPTER V 
INNS AND TAVERNS FURTHER AFIELD 


OutsipE the more or less clearly defined lim- 
its of the city, the neighbourhood of St. Paul’s, 
Fleet Street, the Strand and Covent Garden, 
the explorer of the inns and taverns of old 
London may encircle the metropolis from any 
given point and fimd something of interest 
everywhere. Such a point of departure may 
be made, for example, in the parish of Lam- 
beth, where, directly opposite the Somerset 
House of to-day, once stood the Feathers Tav- 
ern connected with Cuper’s Gardens. The 
career of that resort was materially interfered 
with by the passing of an act in 1752 for the 
regulation of places of entertainment ‘* and 
punishing persons keeping disorderly houses.’’ 
The act stipulated that every place kept for 
public dancing, music, or other entertainment, 
within twenty miles of the city, should be under 
a license. 

Evidently it was found impossible to secure 
a license for Cuper’s Gardens, for in a public 

136 


Batiiteereees 
Bessie 


ee 
OR 


FEATHERS TAVERN. 


Inns and Taverns Afield 137 


print of May 22nd, 1754, the Widow Evans 
advertises that ‘‘ having been deny’d her 
former Liberty of opening her Gardens as 
usual, through the malicious representations of 
ill-meaning persons, she therefore begs to ac- 
quaint the Public that she hath open’d them 
as a Tavern till further notice. Coffee and 
Tea at any hour of the day.’’ There is no rec- 
ord of the Widow Evans ever recovering her 
former ‘‘ Liberty,’’ and hence the necessity of 
continuing the place as a tavern merely, with 
its seductive offer of ‘‘ coffee and tea at any 
hour.’’ Even without a license, however, a 
concert was announced for the night of August 
30th, 1759, the law being evaded by the state- 
ment that the vocal and instrumental pro- 
gramme was to be given by ‘‘ a select number 
of gentlemen for their own private diversion.”’ 
As there is no record of any other entertain- 
ment having been given at the Feathers, it is 
probable that this attempt to dodge the law 
met with condign punishment, and resulted in 
the closing of the place for good. After it had 
stood unoccupied for some time Dr. Johnson 
passed it in the company of Beauclerk, Lang- 
ton, and Lady Sydney Beauclerk, and made a 
sportiv: suggestion that he and Beauclerk and 
Langton should take it. ‘‘ We amused our- 


138 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


selves,’? he said, ‘‘ with scheming how we 
should all do our parts. Lady Sydney grew 
angry and said, ‘ An old man should not put 
such things in young people’s heads.’ She had 
no notion of a joke, sir; had come late into 
life, and had a mighty unpliable understand- 
ing.’?’ Though Johnson did not carry his joke 
into effect, the Feathers has not lacked for per- 
petuation, as is shown by the modern public- 
house of that name in the vicinity of Waterloo 
Bridge. : 

From Lambeth to Westminster is an easy 
journey, but unhappily there are no survivals 
of the numerous inns which figure in records 
of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. 
One of those hostelries makes its appearance 
in the expense sheet of a Roger Keate who 
went to London in 1575 on the business of his 
town of Weymouth. He notes that on Friday 
the tenth day of February, ‘‘ in the companie 
of certain courtiars, and of Mr. Robert Greg- 
orie, at Westminster, at the Sarrazin’s Head ”’ 
he spent the sum of five shillings. This must 
have been a particularly festive occasion, for 
a subsequent dinner cost Mr. Keate but twenty 
pence, and ‘‘ sundrie drinkinges ’’ another day 
left him the poorer by but two shillings and 
twopence, 


Inns and Taverns Afield 139 


Another document, this time of date 1641, 
perpetuates the memory of a second Westmin- 
ster inn in a lively manner. This is a petition 
of a constable of St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields to 
the House of Commons, and concerned the mis- 
doings of certain apprentices at the time of the 
riot caused by Colonel Lunsford’s assault on 
the citizens of Westminster. The petitioner, 
Peter Scott by name, stated that he tried to 
appease the ’prentices by promising to release 
their fellows detained as prisoners in the Mer- 
maid tavern. When he and another constable 
approached the door of the house, his colleague 
was thrust in the leg with a sword from within, 
which so enraged the ’prentices — though why 
is not explained — that they broke into the tav- 
ern, and the keeper had since prosecuted the 
harmless Peter Scott for causing a riot. 

Numerous as were the taverns of Westmin- 
ster, it is probable that the greater proportion 
of them were to be found in one thoroughfare, 
to wit, King Street. It was the residence and 
place of business of one particularly aggres- 
sive brewer in the closing quarter of the seven- 
teenth century. This vendor of ale, John Eng- 
land by name, had the distinction of being the 
King’s brewer, and he appears to have thought 
that that position gave him more rights than 


140 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


were possessed by ordinary mortals. So when 
an order was made prohibiting the passing of 
drays through King Street during certain 
hours of the day, he told the constables that he, 
the King’s brewer, cared nothing for the order 
of the House of Lords. The example proved 
infectious. Other brewers’ draymen became 
obstreperous too, one calling the beadle that 
stopped him ‘‘ a rogue ’’ and another vowing 
that if he knew the beadle ‘‘ he would have a 
touch with him at quarterstaff.’’ But all these 
fiery spirits of King Street were brought to 
their senses, and are found expressing sorrow 
for their offence and praying for their dis- 
charge. 

According to the legend started by Ben Jon- 
son, this same King Street was the scene of 
poet Spenser’s death of starvation. ‘‘ He 
died,’’ so Jonson said, ‘‘ for want of bread in 
King Street; he refused twenty pieces sent 
him by my Lord Essex, and said he was sure 
he had no time to spend them.’’ This myth is 
continually cropping up, but no evidence has 
been adduced in its support. The fact that he 
died in a tavern in King Street tells against 
the story. That thoroughfare, then the only 
highway between the Royal Palace of White- 
hall and the Parliament House, was a street 


Inns and Taverns Afield. 141 


of considerable importance, and Spenser’s 
presence there is explained by Stow’s remark 
that ‘‘ for the accommodation of such as come 
to town in the terms, here are some good inns | 
for their reception, and not a few taverns for 
entertainment, as is not unusual in places of 
great confluence.’’ ‘There are ample proofs, 
too, that King Street was the usual resort of 
those who were messengers to the Court, such 
as Spenser was at the time of his death. 

It is strange, however, that not many of the 
names of these taverns have survived. Yet 
there are two, the Leg and the Bell, to which 
there are allusions in seventeenth century rec- 
ords. There is one reference in that ‘‘ Par- 
hamentary Diary ’’ supposed to have been 
written by Thomas Burton, the book which 
Carlyle characterized as being filled ‘‘ with 
mere dim inanity and moaning wind.’’ This 
chronicler, under date December 18th, 1656, 
tells how he dined with the clothworkers at the 
Leg, and how ‘‘ after dinner I was awhile at 
the Leg with Major-General Howard and Mr. 
Briscoe.’’ Being so near Whitehall in one 
direction and the Parliament House in the 
other, it is not surprising to learn that the 
nimple Pepys was a frequent visitor at the 
tavern. After a morning at Whitehall ‘‘ with 


142 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


my lord ’’ in June, 1660, he dined there with 
a couple of friends. Nearly a year later busi- 
ness took him to the House of Lords, but as 
he failed to achieve the purpose he had in view 
he sought consolation at the Leg, where he 
‘¢ dined very merry.’’ A more auspicious oc- 
casion took place three years after. ‘‘ To the 
Exchequer, and there got my tallys for £17,500, 
the first payment I ever had out of the Ex- 
chequer, and at the Legg spent 14s. upon my 
old acquaintance, some of them the clerks, and 
away home with my tallys in a coach, fearful 
every moment of having one of them fall out, 
or snatched from me.’’ He was equally glow- 
ing with satisfaction when he visited the tavern 
again in 1667. All sorts of compliments had 
been paid him that day, and he had been con- 
gratulated even by the King and the Duke of 
York. ‘‘ I spent the morning thus walking in 
the Hall, being complimented by everybody 
with admiration: and at noon stepped into the 
Legg with Sir William Warren.’’ 

Then there was that other house in King 
Street, the Bell, upon which the diarist be- 
stowed some of his patronage. On his first 
visit he was caught in a neat little trap. ‘‘ Met 
with Purser Washington, with whom and a 
lady, a friend of his, I dined at the Bell Tavern 


Inns and Taverns Afield 143 


in King Street, but the rogue had no more man- 
ners than to invite me, and to let me pay my 
elub.’’ Which was too bad of the Purser, when 
Pepys’ head and heart were full of ‘‘ infinite 
business.’’ The next call, however, was more 
satisfactory and less expensive. He merely 
dropped in to see ‘‘ the seven Flanders mares 
that my Lord has bought lately.’’ But the Bell 
had a history both before and after Pepys’ 
time. It is referred to so far back as the mid- 
dle of the fifteenth century, and it was in high 
favour as the headquarters of the October Club 
in the reign of Queen Anne. 

During the eighteenth century many fash- 
ionable resorts were located in Pall Mall and 
neighbouring streets. In Pall Mall itself was 
the famous Star and Garter, and close by was 
St. Alban’s Tavern, celebrated for its political 
gatherings and public dinners. Horace Wal- 
pole has several allusions to the house and tells 
an anecdote which illustrates the wastefulness 
of young men about town. A number of these 
budding aristocrats were dining at St. Alban’s 
Tavern and found the noise of the coaches out- 
side jar upon their sensitive nerves. So they 
promptly ordered the street to be littered with 
scraw, and probably cared little that the freak 
cost them fifty shillings each, 


144 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


No doubt the charges at the St. Alban’s were 
in keeping with the exclusive character of the 
house, and it might be inferred that the same 
would have held good at the Star and Garter. 
But that was not the case. Many testimonies 
to the moderate charges of that house have 
been cited. Perhaps the most conclusive evi- 
dence on this point is furnished by Swift, who 
was always a bit of a haggler as to the prices 
he paid at taverns. It was at his suggestion 
that the little club to which he belonged dis- 
carded the tavern they had been used to meet- 
ing in and went to the Star and Garter for 
their dinner. ‘‘ The other dog,’’ Swift wrote 
in one of his little letters to Stella, ‘‘ was so 
extravagant in his bills that for four dishes, 
and four, first and second course, without wine 
or dessert, he charged twenty-one pounds, six 
shillings and eightpence.’’ That the bill at the 
Star and Garter was more reasonable is a safe 
inference from the absence of any complaint 
on the part of Swift. 

Several clubs were wont to meet under this 
roof. Among these was the Nottinghamshire 
Club, an association of gentlemen who had 
estates in that county and were in the habit 
of dining together when in town. One such 
gathering, however, had a tragic termination. 


Inns and Taverns Afield 145 


It took place on January 26th, 1765, and among 
those present were William Chaworth, John 
Hewett, Lord Byron, a great-uncle of the poet, 
and seven others. Perfect harmony prevailed 
until about seven o’clock, when the wine was 
brought in and conversation became general. 
At this juncture one member of the company 
started a conversation about the best method 
of preserving game, and the subject was at once 
taken up by Mr. Chaworth and Lord Byron, 
who seem to have held entirely opposite views. 
The former was in favour of severity against 
all poachers, the latter declaring that the best 
way to have most game was to take no care 
of it all. Nettled by this opposition, Mr. Cha- 
worth ejaculated that he had more game on five 
acres than Lord Byron had on all his manors. 
Retorts were bandied to and fro, until finally 
Mr. Chaworth clenched matters by words which 
were tantamount to a challenge to a duel. 
Nothing more was said, however, and the 
company was separating when Mr. Chaworth 
and Lord Byron happened to meet on a land- 
ing. What transpired at first then is not 
known, but evidently the quarrel was resumed 
in some form or other, for the two joined in 
calling a waiter and asking to be shown into 
an empty room. The waiter obeyed, opening 


146 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


the door and placing a small tallow candle on 
the table before he retired. The next news 
from that room was the ringing of a bell, and 
when it was answered it was found that Mr. 
Chaworth was mortally wounded. What had 
happened was explained by Mr. Chaworth, who 
said that he could not: live many hours; that 
he forgave Lord Byron, and hoped the world 
would; that the affair had passed in the dark, 
only a small tallow candle burning in the room; 
that Lord Byron asked him if he meant the 
conversation on the game to Sir Charles Sed- 
ley or to him? ‘To which he replied, if you have 
anything to say, we had better shut the door; 
that while he was doing this, Lord Byron bid 
him draw, and, in turning, he saw his lordship’s 
sword half drawn, on which he whipped out 
his own, and made the first pass; the sword 
being through his lordship’s waistcoat, he 
thought he had killed him, and asking whether 
he was not mortally wounded, Lord Byron, 
while he was speaking, shortened his sword, 
and stabbed him in the abdomen. Mr. Cha- 
worth survived but a few hours. There was 
a trial, of course, but it ended in Lord Byron’s 
acquittal on the ground that he had been guilty 
of but manslaughter. And the poet, the famous 
grand-nephew, rounds off this story of the Star 


Inns and Taverns Afield 147 


and Garter by declaring that his relative, so 
far from feeling any remorse for the death of 
Mr. Chaworth, always kept the sword he had 
used with such fatal effect and had it hanging 
in his bedroom when he died. 

Although the neighbouring Suffolk Street is 
a most decorous thoroughfare at the present 
time, and entirely innocent of taverns, it was 
furnished with two, the Cock and The Golden 
Eagle, in the latter portion of the seventeenth 
century. At the former Evelyn dined on one 
occasion with the councillors of the Board of 
Trade; at the latter, on January 30th, 1735, 
occurred the riot connected with the mythical 
Calf’s Head Club. How the riot arose is some- 
thing of a mystery. It seems, however, that 
a mob was gathered outside the tavern by the 
spreading of the report that some young nobles 
were dining within on a calf’s head in ridicule 
of the execution of Charles I, and a lurid ac- 
count was afterwards circulated as to how a 
bleeding calf’s head, wrapped in a napkin, was 
thrown out of the window, while the merry- 
makers within drank all kinds of confusion to 
the Stuart race. According to the narrative 
of one who was in the tavern, the calf’s head 
basiness was wholly imaginary. Nor was the 
date of the dinner a matter of prearrangement. 


148 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


It seems that the start of the commotion was 
occasioned by some of the company inside ob- 
serving that some boys outside had made a 
bonfire, which, in their hilarity, they were anx- 
ious to emulate. So a waiter was commissioned 
to make a rival conflagration, and then the row 
began. It grew to such proportions that the 
services of a justice and a strong body of 
guards were required ere peace could be re- 
stored to Suffolk Street. 

Rare indeed is it to find a tavern in this dis- 
trict which can claim a clean record in the mat- 
ter of brawls, and duels, and sudden deaths. 
Each of the two most famous houses of the 
Haymarket, that is, Long’s and the Blue Posts 
Tavern, had its fatality. It was at the former 
ordinary, which must not be confused with an- 
other of the same name in Covent Garden, that 
Philip Herbert, the seventh Earl of Pembroke, 
committed one of those murderous assaults for 
which he was distinguished. He killed a man 
in a duel in 1677, and in the first month of the 
following year was committed to the Tower 
‘“ for blasphemous words.’’ ‘That imprison- 
ment, however, was of brief duration, for in 
February a man petitioned the House of Lords 
for protection from the earl’s violence. And 
the day before, in a drunken scuffle at Long’s 


Inns and Taverns Afield 149 


he had killed a man named Nathaniel Cony. 
This did not end his barbarous conduct, for 
two years later he murdered an officer of the 
watch, when returning from a drinking bout at 
Turnham Green. Mercifully for the peace of 
the community this blood-thirsty peer died at 
the age of thirty. At the Blue Posts Tavern 
the disputants were a Mr. Moon and a Mr. 
Hunt, who began their quarrel in the house, 
‘and as they came out at the door they drew 
their swords, and the latter was run through 
and immediately died.’? There was another 
Blue Posts in Spring Gardens close by, which 
became notorious from being the resort of the 
Jacobites. This, in fact, was the house in which 
Robert Charnock and his fellow conspirators 
were at breakfast when news reached them 
which proved that their plot had been discov- 
ered. | | 

A more refined atmosphere hangs around 
the 'memory of the Thatched House, that St. 
James’s Street tavern which started on its 
prosperous career in 1711 and continued it 
until 1865, at which date the building was taken 
down to make room for the Conservative Club- 
house. Its title would have led a stranger to 
expect a modest establishment, but that seems 
to have been bestowed on the principle which 


150 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


still prevails when a mansion is designated a 
cottage. It reminds one of Coleridge and his 


“the Devil did grin, for his darling sin 
Is the pride that apes humility.” | 


Swift was conscious of the incongruity of the 
name, as witness the lines, 


“The Deanery House may well be match’d, 
Under correction, with the Thatch’d.” 


As a matter of fact the tavern was of the high- 
est class and greatly in repute with the leaders 
of society and fashion. And its frequenters 
were not a little proud of being known among 
its patrons. Hence the delightful retort of the 
Lord Chancellor Thurlow recorded by Lord 
Campbell. ‘‘ In the debates on the Regency, 
a prim peer, remarkable for his finical delicacy 
and forma] adherence to etiquette, having cited 
pompously certain resolutions which he said 
had been passed by a party of noblemen and 
gentlemen of great distinction at the Thatched 
House Tavern, the Lord Chancellor Thurlow, 
in adverting to these said, ‘ As to what the 
noble lord in the red ribbon told us he had heard 
at the ale-house.’ ”’ 

Town residences of a duke and several earls 


Inns and Taverns Afield 151 


are now the most conspicuous buildings in the 
Mayfair Stanhope Street, but in the closing 
years of the eighteenth century there was a 
tavern here of the name of Pitt’s Head. On 
a June night in 1792 this house was the scene 
of a gathering which had notable results. The 
host conceived the idea of inviting a number 
of the servants of the neighbourhood to a fes- 
tivity in honour of the King’s birthday, one 
feature of which was to be a dance. The com- 
pany duly assembled to the number of forty, 
but some busybody carried news of the gath- 
ering to a magistrate who, with fifty constables, 
quickly arrived on the scene to put an end to 
the merrymaking. Every servant in the tav- 
ern was taken into custody and marched off 
to a watch-house in Mount Street. News of 
what had happened spread during the night, 
and early in the morning the watch-house was 
surrounded by a furious mob. A riot followed, 
which was not easily suppressed. But another 
consequence followed. During the riot the 
Earl of Lonsdale was stopped in his carriage 
while passing to his own house, and annoyed 
by that experience he addressed some curt 
words to a Captain Cuthbert who was on duty 
with the soldiers. Of course a duel was the 
next step. After failing to injure each other 


152 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


at two attempts, the seconds intervened, and 
insisted that, as their quarrel had arisen 
through a mutual misconception, and as neither 
of them would make the first concession, they 
should advance towards each other, step for 
step, and both declare, in the same breath, that 
they were sorry for what had happened. 

_ In pre-railway days Piccadilly could boast 
of the White Horse Cellar, which Dickens made 
famous as the starting-point of Mr. Pickwick 
for Bath after being mulct in seven hundred 
and fifty pounds damages by the fair widow 
Bardell. The fact that it was an important 
coaching depot appears to have been its chief 
attraction in those and earlier days, for the 
novelist’s description of the interior would 
hardly prove seductive to travellers were the 
house existing in its old-time condition. ‘‘ The 
travellers’ room at the White Horse Cellar,’’ 
wrote Dickens, ‘‘is of course uncomfortable; 
it would be no travellers’ room if it were not. 
It is the right-hand parlour, into which an 
aspiring kitchen fireplace appears to have 
walked, accompanied by a rebellious poker, 
tongs, and shovel. It is divided into boxes, for 
the solitary confinement of travellers, and is 
furnished with a clock, a looking-glass, and — 
a live waiter: which latter article is kept in 


Inns and Taverns Afield 153 


a small kennel for washing glasses, in a corner 
of the apartment.’’ Pierce Egan, in the closing 
pages of his lively account of Jerry Haw-. 
thorn’s visit to London, gives an outside view 
of the tavern only. And that more by sugges- 
tion than direct description. It is the bustle 
of the place rather than its architectural fea- 
tures Egan was concerned with, and in that he 
was seconded by his artist, George Cruikshank, 
whose picture of the White Horse Cellar is 
mostly coach and horses and human beings. 

Few if any London taverns save the Adam 
and Eve can claim to stand upon ground once 
occupied by a King’s palace. This tavern, 
which has a modern representative of identical 
name, was situated at the northern end of Tot- 
tenham Court Road, at the junction of the road 
leading to Hampstead. It was built originally 
on the site of a structure known as King John’s 
Palace, which subsequently became a manor 
house, and then gave way to the Adam and 
Eive tavern and gardens. This establishment 
had a varied career. At one time it was highly 
respectable; then its character degenerated to 
the lowest depths; afterwards taking an up- 
ward move once more. 

Something in the shape of a place for re- 
freshments was standing on this spot in the 


154 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


mid seventeenth century, for the parish books 
of St. Giles in the Fields record that three 
serving maids were in 1645 fined a shilling each 
for ‘‘ drinking at Totenhall Court on the Sab- 
bath daie.’’ In the eighteenth century the re- 
sort was at the height of its popularity. It had 
a large room with an organ, skittle-alleys, and 
cosy arbours for those who liked to consume 
their refreshments out of doors. At one time 
also its attractions actually embraced ‘‘a 
monkey, a heron, some wild fowl, some parrots, 
and a small pond for gold-fish.’’ It was at this 
stage in its history, when its surroundings were 
more rural than it is possible to imagine to-day, 
that the tavern was depicted by Hogarth in 
his ‘‘ March to Finchley ’”’ plate. Early in the 
last century, however, it ‘‘ became a place of 
more promiscuous resort, and persons of the 
worst character and description were in the 
constant habit of frequenting it; highwaymen, 
footpads, pickpockets, and common women 
formed its leading visitants, and it became so 
great a nuisance to the neighbourhood, that the 
magistrates interfered, the organ was banished, 
the skittle-grounds destroyed, and the gardens 
dug up.’’ A creepy story is told of a subter- 
raneous passage having existed in connection 
with the manor house which formerly stood on 


nas 


ADAM AND EVE TAVERN, 


4 


Inns and Taverns Afield 155 


this spot, a passage which many set out to 
explore but which has kept its secret hidden 
to this day. 

Record has already been made of the fact 
that there was one ‘‘ Sarrazin’s ’’ Head tavern 
at Westminster; it must be added that there 
was another at Snow Hill, which disappeared 
when the Holborn Viaduct was built. Dickens, 
who rendered so many valuable services in de- 
scribing the buildings of old London, has left 
a characteristic pen-picture of this tavern. 
‘“ Near to the jail, and by consequence near 
to Smithfield, and on that particular part of 
Snow Hill where omnibuses going eastward 
seriously think of falling>down on purpose, and 
where horses in hackney cabriolets going west- 
ward not unfrequently fall by accident, is the 
coachyard of the Saracen’s Head Inn; its 
portals guarded by two Saracens’ heads and 
shoulders frowning upon you from each side 
of the gateway. The Inn itself garnished with 
another Saracen’s head, frowns upon you from 
the top of the yard. When you walk up this 
yard you will see the booking-office on your 
left, and the tower of St. Sepulchre’s Church 
darting abruptly up into the sky on your 
right, and a gallery of bedrooms upon both 
sides. Just before you, you will observe a long 


156 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


window with the words ‘ Coffee Room ’ legibly 
painted above it.’’ That allusion to St. Sepul- 
chre’s Church recalls the fact that in that build- 
ing may be seen the brass to the memory of 
the redoubtable Captain John Smith, who was 
to win the glory of laying the first abiding 
foundations of English life in America. The 
brass makes due record of the fact that he was 
‘* Admiral of New England,’’ and it also bears 
in the coat of arms three Turks’ heads, in mem- 
ory of Smith’s alleged single-handed victory 
over that number of Saracens. As Selden 
pointed out, when Einglishmen came home from 
fighting the Saracens, and were beaten by them, 
they, to save their own credit, pictured their — 
enemy with big, terrible faces, such as frowned 
at Dickens from so many coigns of vantage in 
the old Saracen’s Head. 

During the closing decade of the famous Bar- 
tholomew F'air—an annual medley of com- 
merce and amusement which had its origin in 
the days when it was the great cloth exchange 
of all England and attracted clothiers from all 
quarters — the scene of what was known as the 
Pie-Powder Court was located in a tavern 
known as the Hand and Shears. Concerning 
this court Blackstone offered this interesting 
explanation: ‘‘ The lowest, and, at the same 


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Inns and Taverns Afield $157 


time, the most expeditious court of justice 
known to the law of England, is the Court of 
Pie-Powder, curia pedis pulverizati, so called 
from the dusty feet of the suitors.’’ Another 
explanation of the name is that the court was 
so called ‘‘ because justice is there done as 
speedily as dust can fall from the foot.’’ 
Whatever be the correct solution, the curious 
fact remains that this court was a serious af- 
fair, and had the power to enforce law and deal 
out punishment within the area of the Fair. 
There is an excellent old print of the Hand 
and Shears in which the court was held, and 
another not less interesting picture showing 
the court engaged on the trial of a case. It 
is evident from the garb of the two principal 
figures that plaintiff and. defendant belonged 
to the strolling-player fraternity, who always 
contributed largely to the amusements of the 
Fair. This curious example of swift justice, 
recalling the Old Testament picture of the 
judge sitting at the gate of the city, became 
entirely a thing of the past when Bartholomew 
Fair was abolished in 1854. 

There are two other inns, one to the north, 
the other to the south, the names of which can 
hardly escape the notice of the twentieth cen- 
tury visitor to London. These are the Angel 


158 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


at Islington, and the Elephant and Castle at 
Walworth. The former is probably the older 
of the two, though both were in their day fa- 
mous as the starting-places of coaches, just as 
they are conspicuous to-day as traffic centres 
of omnibuses and tram-cars. The Angel dates 
back to before 1665, for in that year of plague 
in London a citizen broke out of his house in 
the city and sought refuge here. He was re- 
fused admission, but was taken in at another 
inn and found dead in the morning. In the 
seventeenth century and later, as old pictures 
testify, the inn presented the usual features of 
a large old country hostelry. As such the 
courtyard is depicted by Hogarth in his print 
of the ‘‘ Stage Coach.’’ Its career has been 
uneventful in the main, though in 1767 one of 
its guests ended his life by poison, leaving be- 
hind this message: ‘‘ I have for fifteen years 
past suffered more indigence than ever gentle- 
man before submitted to, I am neglected by my 
acquaintance, traduced by my enemies, and in- 
sulted by the vulgar.”’ 

If he would complete the circle of his tour 
on the outskirts of London proper, the pilgrim, 
on leaving the Elephant and Castle, should 
wend his way to Bankside, though. not in the 
expectation of finding any vestige left of that 


FALCON TAVERN, BANKSIDE, 


+ 


ce) 


5 


Inns and Taverns Afield 159 


Falcon tavern which was the daily resort. of 
Shakespeare and his theatrical companions. 
Not far from Blackfriars Bridge used to be 
Falcon Stairs and the Falcon Glass Works, and 
other industrial buildings bearing that name, 
but no Falcon tavern within recent memory. 
It has been denied that Shakespeare frequented 
the Falcon tavern which once did actually exist. 
But so convivial a soul must have had some 
‘“ house of call,’’ and there is no reason to rob 
the memory of the old Falcon of what would 
be its greatest honour. Especially does it seem 
unnecessary in view of the fact that the Falcon 
and many another inn and tavern of old Lon- 
don, has vanished and left ‘‘ not a rack be- 
hind.”’ 


II 
COFFEE -HOUSES OF OLD LONDON 


161 


CHAPTER I 
COFFEE - HOUSES ON ’CHANGE AND NEAR- BY 


CoFFEE - HousEs still exist in London, but it 
would be difficult to fmd one answering to the 
type which was so common during the last forty 
years of the seventeenth century and the first 
half of the eighteenth. The establishment of 
to-day is nothing more than an eating-house 
of modest pretensions, frequented mostly by 
the labouring classes. In many cases its in- 
ternal arrangements follow the old-time model, 
and the imitation extends to the provision of 
a daily newspaper or two from which custom- 
ers may glean the news of the day without 
extra charge. Here and there, too, the coffee- 
house of the present perpetuates the conve- 
nience of its prototype by allowing customers’ 
letters to be sent to its address. But the more 
exalted type of coffee-house has lost its identity 
in the club. , 

It is generally agreed that 1652 was the date 
of the opening of the first coffee-house in Lon- 
don. There are, however, still earlier refer- 

163 


164 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


ences to the drink itself. For example, Sir 
Henry Blount wrote from Turkey in 1634 to 
the effect that the natives of that country had 
a ‘‘ drink called cauphe ... in taste a little 
bitterish,’? and that they daily entertained 
themselves ‘‘ two or three hours in cauphe- 
houses, which, in Turkey, abound more than 
inns and alehouses with us.’’ Also it will be 
remembered that Evelyn, under date 1637, re- 
corded how a Greek came to Oxford and ‘‘ was 
the first I ever saw drink coffee.’’ | 
Whether the distinction of opening the first 
coffee-house in London belongs to a Mr. Bow- 
man or to a Pasqua Rosee cannot be decided. 
But all authorities are as one in locating that 
establishment in St. Michael’s Alley, Cornhill, 
and that the date was 1652. The weight of 
evidence seems to be in favour of Rosee, who 
was servant to a Turkey merchant named Kd- 
wards. Having acquired the coffee-drinking 
habit in Turkey, Mr. Edwards was accustomed 
to having his servant prepare the beverage for 
him in his London house, and the new drink 
speedily attracted a levee of curious onlookers 
and tasters. Evidently the company grew too 
large to be convenient, and at this juncture 
Mr. Edwards suggested that Rosee should set 
up as a vendor of the drink. He did so, and a 


Coffee-Houses on ’Change 165 


copy of the prospectus he issued on the occa- 
sion still exists. It set forth at great length 
‘“the virtue of the Coffee Drink First pub- 
liquely made and sold in England by Pasqua 
Rosee,’’ the berry of which was described as 
‘‘a simple innocent thing’’ but yielding a 
liquor of countless merits. But Rosee was 
frank as to its drawbacks; ‘‘ it will prevent 
drowsiness,’’ he continued, ‘‘ and make one fit 
for business, if one have occasion to watch; 
and therefore you are not to drink it after 
supper, unless you intend to be watchful, for 
it will hinder sleep for three or four hours.’’ 

That Pasqua Rosee prospered amazingly in 
St. Michael’s Alley, ‘‘ at the Signe of his own 
Head,’’ is the only conclusion possible from 
the numerous rival establishments which were 
quickly set up in different parts of London. 
By the end of the century it was computed that 
the coffee-houses of London numbered nearly 
three thousand. 

But there were days of tribulation to be 
passed through before that measure of success 
was attained. In eight years after Rosee had 
opened his establishment the consumption of 
coffee in England had evidently increased to 
a notable extent, for in 1660 the House of Com- 
mons is found granting to Charles II for life 


166 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


the excise duty on coffee ‘‘ and other outland- 
ish drinks.’’ But it is a curious fact that while 
the introduction of tea was accepted with equa- 
nimity by the community, the introduction of 
coffee was strenuously opposed for more than 
a decade. Poets and pamphleteers combined to 
decry the new beverage. The rhyming author 
of ‘‘ A Cup of Coffee, or Coffee in its Colours,’’ 
published in 1663, voiced his indignation thus: 


“For men and Christians to turn Turks and think 
To excuse the crime, because ’tis in their drink! 
Pure English apes! ye might, for aught I know, 
Would it but mode — learn to eat spiders too. 
Should any of your grandsires’ ghosts appear 
In your wax-candle circles, and but hear 
The name of coffee so much called upon, 

Then see it drank like scalding Phlegethon ; 
Would they not startle, think ye, all agreed 
*T'was conjuration both in word and deed?” 


By way of climax this opponent of the new 
drink appealed to the shades of Ben Jonson 
and other libation-loving poets, and recalled 
how they, as source of inspiration, ‘‘ drank 
pure nectar as the Gods drink too.”’ 

Three years later a dramatist seems to have ~ 
tried his hand at depicting the new resort on 
the stage, for Pepys tells how in October, 1666, © 
he saw a play called ‘‘ The Coffee-House.’’ It 


Coffee-Houses on ’Change 167 


was not a success; ‘‘ the most ridiculous, in- 
sipid play that ever I saw in my life,’’ was 
Pepys’ verdict. But there was nothing insipid 
about the pamphlet which, under the title of 
‘‘The Character of a Coffee-House,’’ issued 
from the press seven years later. The author 
withheld his name, and was wise in so doing, 
for his cuts and thrusts with his pen would 
have brought down upon him as numerous cuts 
and thrusts with a more dangerous weapon 
had his identity been known. ‘‘ A coffee- 
house,’’ he wrote, ‘‘ is a lay-conventicle, good- 
fellowship turned puritan, ill-husbandry in 
masquerade; whither people come, after toping 
all day, to purchase, at the expense of their last 
penny, the repute of sober companions: a rota- 
room, that, like Noah’s ark, receives animals 
of every sort, | from the precise diminutive 
band, to the hectoring cravat and cuffs in folio; 
a nursery for training up the smaller fry of 
virtuosi in confident tattling, or a cabal of kit- 
tling critics that have only learned to spit and 
mew; a mint of intelligence, that, to make 
each man his penny-worth, draws out into 
petty parcels what the merchant receives in 
bullion. He, that comes often, saves two-pence 
a week in Gazettes, and has his news and his 
coffee for the same charge, as at a three-penny 


168 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


SS cee} 
ordinary they give in broth to your chop of 
mutton; it is an exchange where haberdashers 
of political smallwares meet, and mutually 
abuse each other, and the public, with bottom- 
less stories, and headless notions; the rendez- 
vous of idle pamphlets, and persons more idly 
employed to read them; a high court of justice, 
where every little fellow in a camlet cloke takes 
upon him to transpose affairs both in church 
and state, to shew reasons against acts of par- 
lament, and condemn the decrees of general 
councils. ’’ 

Having indulged in that trenchant generali- 
zation, this vigorous assailant proceeded to 
describe a coffee-house in detail. The room - 
‘< stinks of tobacco worse than hell of brim- 
stone; ’’ the coffee itself had the appearance 
of ‘* Pluto’s diet-drink, that witches tipple out 
of dead men’s skulls; ’’ and the company in- 
cluded ‘‘ a silly fop and a worshipful justice, a 
griping rook and a grave citizen, a worthy law- 
yer and an errant pickpocket, a reverend non- 
conformist and a canting mountebank, all 
blended together to compose an oglio of im- 
pertinence.’’ There is a delightful sketch of 
one named ‘‘ Captain All-man-sir,’’ as big a 
boaster as Falstaff, and a more delicately. 
etched portrait of the Town Wit, who is 


Coffee-Houses on ’Change 169 


summed up as the ‘‘ jack-pudding of society ”’ 
in the judgment of all wise men, but an incom- 
parable wit in his own. The peroration of this 
pamphlet, devoted to a wholesale condemna- — 
tion of the coffee-house, indulges in too frank 
and unsavoury metaphors for, modern re-pub- 
lication. | 

Of course there was an answer. Pamphlet- 
eering was one of the principal diversions of 
the age. ‘‘ Coffee-Houses Vindicated ’’ was 
the title of the reply. The second pamphlet — 
was not the equal of the first in terseness or 
wit, but it had the advantage in argument. 
The writer did not find it difficult to make out 
‘a good case for the coffee-house. ' It was eco- 
nomical, conduced to sobriety, and provided 
innocent diversion. When one had to meet a 
friend, a tavern was an expensive place; ‘* in 
an ale-house you must gorge yourself with pot 
after pot, sit dully alone, or be drawn in to 
club for others’ reckonings.’’ Not so at the 
coffee-house: ‘‘ Here, for a penny or two, you 
may spend two or three hours, have the shelter 
of a house, the warmth of a fire, the diversion 
of company; and conveniency, if you please, 
of taking a pipe of tobacco; and all this with- 
out any grumbling or repining.’’ On the score 
of sobriety the writer was equally cogent. It 


170 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


was stupid custom which insisted that any and 
every transaction should be carried out at a 
tavern, where continual sipping made men un- 
fit for business. Coffee, on the contrary, was 
a ‘‘ wakeful ’’ drink. And the company of the 
coffee-house enabled its frequenter to follow 
the proper study of man, mankind. The tri- 
umphant conclusion was that a well-regulated 
coffee-house was ‘‘ the sanctuary of health, the 
nursery of temperance, the delight of frugality, 
an academy of civility, and free-school of in- 
genuity.’’ 

But a still more serious-minded person took 
part in the assault upon the coffee-house. He 
was one of those amateur statesmen, who usu- 
ally, as in this case, abrogate to themselves the 
title of ‘‘ Lover of his Country,’’ who have a 
remedy for every disease of the body politic. | 
In a series of proposals offered for the con- 
sideration of Parliament, this patriot pleaded 
for the suppression of coffee-houses on the 
ground that if less coffee were drunk there 
would be a larger demand for beer, and a larger 
demand for beer meant the growing of more 
English grain. Apart from economics, how- 
ever, there were adequate reasons for suppres- 
sion. These coffee-houses have ‘‘ done great 
mischiefs to the nation, and undone many of 


Coffee-Houses on Change _— 171 


the King’s subjects: for they, being great ene- 
mies to diligence and industry, have been the 
ruin of many serious and hopeful young gen- 
tlemen and tradesmen, who, before frequenting 
these places, were diligent students or shop- 
keepers, extraordinary husbands of their time 
as well as money; but since these houses have 
been set up, under pretence of good husbandry, 
to avoid spending above one penny or two- 
pence at a time, have gone to these coffee- 
houses; where, meeting friends, they have sat 
talking three or four hours; after which, a 
fresh acquaintance appearing, and so one after 
another all day long, hath begotten fresh dis- 
course, so that frequently they have staid five 
or six hours together,’’ to the neglect of shops 
and studies, ete., ete. 

Even yet, however, the worst had not been 
said. The wives of England had to be heard 
from. Hence the ‘‘ Women’s Petition against 
Coffee,’? which enlivens the annals of the year 
of grace 1674. The pernicious drink was in- 
dicted on three counts: ‘‘ It made men as un- 
fruitful as the deserts whence that unhappy 
berry is said to be brought; ’’ its use would 
cause the offspring of their ‘‘ mighty ances- 
tors ’’ to ‘‘ dwindle into a succession of apes 
and pigmies; ’’ and when a husband went out 


172 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


on a domestic errand he ‘‘ would stop by the 
way to drink a couple of cups of coffee.’’ 
These assaults — or, what is more probable, 
the abuse of the coffee-house for political pur- 
poses — had an effect, for a time. The king, 
although enjoying the excise from that ‘‘ out- 
landish ’’ drink, did issue a proclamation for 
the suppression of the coffee-houses, only to 
cancel it almost ere the ink was dry. But later, 
to put a stop to that public discussion of state 
affairs which was deemed sacrilege in the sev- 
enteenth century, an order was issued forbid- 
ding coffee-houses to keep any written or other 
news save such as appeared in the Gazette. 
But the coffee-house as an institution was 
not to be put down. Neither pamphlets nor 
poems, nor petitions nor proclamations, had any 
effect. It met a ‘‘ felt want ’’ apparently, or 
made so effective an appeal to the social spirit 
of seventeenth century Londoners that its suc- 
cess was assured from the start. Consequently 
Pasqua Rosee soon had opposition in his own 
immediate neighbourhood. It may be that the 
Rainbow of Fleet Street was the second coffee- 
house to be opened in London, or that the hon- 
our belonged elsewhere; what is to be noted 
is that the establishments multiplied fast and 
nowhere more than in the vicinity of the Royal 


Coffee-Houses on ’Change 473. 


Exchange. Several were to be found in Change 
Alley, while in the Royal Exchange of to-day, 
the third building of that name, are the head- 
quarters of Lloyd’s, which perpetuates in name 
at least one of the most remarkable coffee- 
houses of the seventeenth century. 

Evidence is abundant that the early coffee- 
houses took their colour from the district in 
which they were established. Thus it would be 
idle in the main to expect a literary atmosphere 
among the houses which flourished in the heart 
of the city. They became the resorts of men 
of business, and gradually acquired a specific 
character from the type of business man most 
frequenting them. In a way Batson’s coffee- 
house was an exception to the rule, inasmuch 
as doctors and not merchants were most in 
evidence here. But the fact that it was tacitly 
accepted as the physicians’ resort shows how 
the principle acted in a general way. One of 
the most constant visitors at Batson’s was Sir 
Richard Blackmore, that scribbling doctor who 
was physician to William III and then to 
Queen Anne. Although his countless books 
were received either with ridicule or absolute 
silence, he. still persisted in authorship, and 
finally produced an ‘‘ Heroick Poem’? in 
twelve books entitled, ‘‘ Prince Alfred.’’ Lest 


174 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


any should wonder how a doctor could court 
the muse to that extent without neglecting his 
proper work, he explained in his preface that 
he had written the poem ‘‘ by such catches and 
starts, and in such occasional uncertain hours 
as his profession afforded, and for the greater 
part in coffee-houses, or in passing up and 
down the streets,’’ an apology which led to his 
being accused of writing ‘‘ to the rumbling of 
his chariot wheels.’’ But in the main the real 
literary folk of the day would have none of 
him. He belonged to the city, and what had 
a mere city man to do with poetry? Even Dr. 
Johnson, in taking note of a reply Blackmore 
made to his critics, chided him with writing 
‘‘in language such as Cheapside easily fur- 
nished.”’ 

Other physicians, however, resorted to Bat- 
son’s coffee-house in a professional and not a 
poetic way. The character of its frequenters 
was described in a lively manner in the first 
number of the Connoisseur, published in Jan- 
uary, 1754. Having devoted a few sentences 
to a neighbouring establishment, the writer 
noted that it is ‘‘ but a short step to a gloomy 
class of mortals, not less intent on gain than 
the stock-jobbers: I mean the dispensers of | 
life and death, who flock together like birds of 


Coffee-Houses on ’Change 175 


prey watching for carcasses at Batson’s. I 
never enter this place, but it serves as a me- 
mento mori to me. What a formidable assem- 
blage of sable suits, and tremendous perukes! 
I have often met here a most intimate acquaint- 
ance, whom I have scarce known again; a 
sprightly young fellow, with whom I have spent 
many a jolly hour; but being just dubbed a 
graduate in physic, he has gained such an en- 
tire conquest over the risible muscles, that he 
hardly vouchsafes at any time to smile. I have 
heard him harangue, with all the oracular im- 
portance of a veteran, on the possibility of 
Canning’s subsisting for a whole month on a 
few bits of bread; and he is now preparing a 
treatise, in which he will set forth a new and 
infallible method to prevent the spreading of 
the plague from France to England. Batson’s 
has been reckoned the seat of solemn stupidity: 
yet it is not totally devoid of taste and common 
sense. They have among them physicians, who 
can cope with the most eminent lawyers or 
divines; and critics, who can relish the sal vol- 
atile of a witty composition, or determine how 
much fire is requisite to sublimate a tragedy 
secundum artem.’’ The house served a useful 
purpose at a time when physicians were not 
in the habit of increasing their knowledge by 


176 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


visiting the wards of the hospitals. Batson’s 
was a consulting-house instead, not alone for 
patients but for the doctors themselves. In 
this respect, then, it differed from the generally 
commercial character of the coffee-houses un- 
der the shadow of the Exchange. 

But there was no mistaking the commercial 
character of a place like Garraway’s in Change 
Alley. The essayist just quoted is responsible 
for a story to the effect that when a celebrated 
actor was cast for the part of Shylock he made 
daily visits to the coffee-houses near the Ex- 
change that ‘‘ by a frequent intercourse and 
conversation with ‘ the unforeskin’d race,’ he 
might habituate himself to their air and de- 
portment.’’ And the same chronicler goes on 
to say that personally he was never more di- 
verted than by a visit to Garraway’s a few 
days before the drawing of a lottery. ‘‘ I not 
only could read hope, fear, and all the various 
passions excited by a love of gain, strongly 
pictured in the faces of those who came to buy; 
but I remarked with no less delight, the many 
little artifices made use of to allure adventur- 
ers, as well as the visible alterations in the 
looks of the sellers, according as the demand 
for tickets gave occasion to raise or lower their 
price. So deeply were the countenances of 


GARRAWAY’S COFFEE-HOUSE, 


ir 


Coffee-Houses on ’Change 177 al X 


these bubble-brokers impressed with attention 
to the main chance, and their minds seemed 
so dead to all other sensations, that one might 
almost doubt, where money is out of the case, 
whether a Jew ‘ has eyes, hands, organs, di- / 
mensions, affections, passions.’ ’’ But lottery . 
tickets were not the only things offered for sale 
at Garraway’s. Wine was a common article 
of sale there in the early days, and in the 
latter career of the house it became famous 
as an auction-room for land and house prop- 
erty. 

Thomas Garraway was the founder of the 
house, the same who is credited with having 
been the first to retail tea in England. On the 
success of Pasqua Rosee he was not long, ap- 
parently, in adding coffee to his stock, and 
then turning his place of business into a cof- 
fee-house. The house survived till 1866, and 
even to its latest years kept an old-time char- 
acter. A frequenter of the place says the 
ground-floor was furnished with cosy mahog- 
any boxes and seats, and that the ancient prac- 
tice of covering the floor with sand was main- 
tained to the last. 

Two other houses, Jonathan’s and Sam’s, 
were notorious for their connection with stock- 
jobbing. ‘The latter, indeed, figured prom- 


178 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


inently in the gigantic South Sea Bubble fraud. 
And even when that was exposed Sam’s con- 
tinued to be the headquarters of all the get- 
rich-quick schemes of the day. Thus in one 
issue of a newspaper of 1720 there were two 
announcements specially designed to catch the 
unwary. One notice told that a book would be 
opened for entering into a joint-partnership 
‘fon a thing that will turn to the advantage 
of the concerned,’’ and the other was a mod- 
est proposal to raise two million pounds for 
buying and improving the Fens of Lincoln- 
shire. 

Jonathan’s is incidentally described by Ad- 
dison as ‘‘ the general mart of stock-jobbers,’’ 
and in that amusing account of himself to which 
he devoted the first number of the Spectator 
he explained that he had been taken for a mer- 
chant on the exchange, ‘‘ and sometimes passed 
for a Jew in the assembly of stock-jobbers at 
Jonathan’s.’’ Half a century later than these 
allusions the Annual Register recorded a case 
tried at the Guildhall arising out of an assault 
at this coffee-house. It seems that the master, 
Mr. Ferres, pushed the plaintiff, one Isaac 
Renoux, out of his house, for which he was 
fined one shilling damages on it being proved 
at the trial that ‘‘ the house had been a market, 


es 3 eee 
yee KATE xe 
par CERBL OTS | 


8 


ASKS 
AFAS8} 


PUNTER 


ee 
pis 


COFFEE-HOUSE., 


MAD DOG IN A 
(From a Rowlandson Caricature.) 


Coffee-Houses on ’Change- 179 


time out of mind, for buying and selling gov- 
ernment securities.’ 

Such houses as John’s in Birchin Lane and 
the Jerusalem coffee-house, which was situated 
in a court off Cornhill, were typical places of 
resort for merchants trading to distant parts 
of the world. One of Rowlandson’s lively cari- 
catures, that of a ‘‘ Mad Dog in a Coffee- 
House,’’ is a faithful representation of the 
interior of one of those houses. A bill on the 
_ wall shows how they were used for the publi- 
cation of shipping intelligence, that particular 
placard giving details of the sailing of ‘‘ The 
Cerebus ’’ for the Brazils. In a private letter 
of July 30th, 1715, is an account of an exciting 
incident which had its origin in the Jerusalem 
eoffee-house. At that time England was in a 
state of commotion over the Jacobite insurrec- 
tion and the excitement seems to have turned 
the head of a Captain Montague, who was re- 
puted to be ‘‘ a civil sober man,’’ of good prin- 
ciples and in good circumstances. He had en- 
tered the Jerusalem coffee-house on the previ- 
ous day, as the letter relates, and, without any 
provocation, ‘‘ of a sudden struck a gentleman 
who knew him a severe blow on the eye; im- 
mediately after, drawing his sword, ran out 
through the alley cross Cornhill still with it 


180 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


drawn; and at the South entrance of the Ex- 
change uttered words to this effect, that he 
was come in the face of the Sun to proclaim 
James the third King of England, and that 
only he was heir.’? Whereupon he knocked 
down another gentleman, who, however, had 
sense enough to see that the captain was out 
of his mind and called for assistance to secure 
him. It took half a dozen men to hold him 
in the coach which carried him to a magis- 
trate, who promptly committed him to a mad- 
house. 

Tom’s coffee-house was situated in the same 
thoroughfare as John’s. This was the resort 
affected by Garrick on his occasional visits to 
the city, and is also thought to have been the 
house frequented by Chatterton. In a letter 
to his sister that ill-fated poet excused the hap- 
hazard nature of his epistle he was writing her 
from Tom’s on the plea that there was ‘‘ such 
a noise of business and politics in the room.’’ 
He explained that his present business — the 
concocting of squibs, tales and songs on the 
events of the day — obliged him to frequent 
places of the best resort. 

In view of its subsequent career no coffee- 
house of the city proper was of so much im- 
portance as that founded by Edward Lloyd. 


i 
| 


RSCG 


me te ie 
« <> 


OOO e's 


S COFFEE-HOUSE., 


7 


TOM 


Coffee-Houses on ’Change 181 


He first appears in the history of old London 
as the keeper of a coffee-house in Tower Street 
in 1688, but about four years later he removed 
to Lombard Street in close proximity to the 
Exchange, and his house gradually became the 
recognized centre of shipbroking and marine 
insurance business, for which the corporation 
still bearing the name of ei s 1s renowned 
all over the world. 

Two pictures of Lloyd’s as it was in the first 
decade of the eighteenth century are to be 
found in the gallery of English literature, one 
from the pen of Steele, the other from that of 
Addison. The first is in the form of a petition — 
to Isaac Bickerstaff, Esq., from the customers 
of the house, and begged that he would use his 
influence to get other coffee-houses to adopt a 
custom which prevailed at Lloyd’s. Great 
scandal, it seems, had been caused by coffee- 
house orators of the irresponsible order. Such 
nuisances were not tolerated at Lloyd’s. The 
petitioners explained —and by inference the 
explanation preserves a record of the internal 
economy of the house — that at Lloyd’s a serv- 
ant was deputed to ascend the pulpit in the 
room and read the news on its arrival, ‘‘ while 
the whole audience are sipping their respective 
liquors.’’ The application of the petition lay 


182 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


in the suggestion that this method should be 
adopted in all coffee-houses, and that if any 
one wished to orate at large on any item of the 
news of the day he should be obliged to ascend 
the pulpit and make his comments in a formal 
manner. 

Evidently the pulpit at Lloyd’s was a settled 
institution. It played a conspicuous part in 
that ludicrous incident which Addison describes 
at his own expense. It was his habit, he ex- 
plained, to jot down from time to time brief 
hints such as could be expanded into Spectator 
papers, and a sheetful of such hints would nat- 
urally look like a ‘‘ rhapsody of nonsense ’’ to 
any one save the writer himself. Such a sheet 
he accidentally dropped in Lloyd’s one day, 
and before he missed it the boy of the house 
had it in his hand and was carrying it around 
in search of its owner. But Addison did not 
know that until it was too late. Many of the 
customers had glanced at its contents, which 
had caused them so much merriment that the 
boy was ordered to ascend the pulpit and read 
the paper for the amusement of the company 
at large. ‘‘ The reading of this paper,’’ con- 
tinues Addison, ‘‘ made the whole coffee-house 
very merry; some of them concluded that it 
was written by a madman, and others by some- 


ie 


ceetin E: 


LLOYD’S COFFEE-HOUSE. 


ih 


oa 


Coffee-Houses on ’Change 183 


body that had been taking notes out of the 
Spectator. One who had the appearance of a 
very substantial citizen told us, with several 
political winks and nods, that he wished there 
was no more in the paper than what was ex- 
pressed in it: that for his part, he looked upon 
the dromedary, the gridiron, and the barber’s 
pole, to signify something more than what was 
usually meant by those words: and that he 
thought the coffee-man could not do better than 
to carry the paper to one of the secretaries of 
state.’’ In the midst of the numerous other 
comments, wise and otherwise, Addison reached 
for the paper, pretended to look it over, shook 
his head twice or thrice, and then twisted it 
into a match and lit his pipe with it. The ruse 
diverted suspicion, especially as Addison ap- 
plied himself to his pipe and the paper he was 
reading with seeming unconcern. And he con- 
soled the readers of the Spectator with the 
reflection that he had already used more than 
half the hints on that unfortunate sheet of 
notes. 

Since those almost idyllic days, Lloyd’s has 
played a notable part in the life of the nation. 
At its headquarters in the Royal Exchange 
building are preserved many interesting relics 
of the history of the institution. From a sim- 


184 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


ple coffee-house open to all and sundry, it has 
developed into the shipping-exchange of the 
world, employing 1,500 agents in all parts of 
the globe. 


CHAPTER II 
ROUND ST. PAUL’S 


Ir there was a certain incongruity in the phy- 
sicians having their special coffee-house in the 
heart of the city, there was none in clerics 
affecting the St. Paul’s coffee-house under the 
shadow of the cathedral of that name. This 
being the chief church of the metropolis, not- 
withstanding the greater historic importance 
of Westminster Abbey, it naturally became the 
religious centre of London so far as clergymen 
were concerned. But the frequenters of this 
house were of a mixed type. That historian 
of Batson’s who was quoted in the previous 
chapter, related that after leaving its dismal 
vicinity he was glad to ‘‘ breathe the pure air 
in St. Paul’s coffee-house,’’ but he was obliged 
to add that as he entertained the highest ven- 
eration for the clergy he could not ‘‘ contem- 
plate the magnificence of the cathedral without 
reflecting on the abject condition of those ‘ tat- 
ter’d crapes,’ who are said to ply here for an 
occasional burial or sermon, with the same reg- 

185 


186 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


ularity as the happier drudges who salute us 
with the ery of ‘ coach, sir,’ or ‘ chair, your 
honour.’ ’’ Somewhat late in the eighteenth 
century St. Paul’s coffee-house had a distin- 
guished visitor in the: person of Benjamin 
Franklin, who here made the acquaintance of 
Richard Price, that philosophical dissenting 
divine whose pamphlet on American affairs is 
said to have had no inconsiderable part in de- 
termining Americans to declare their indepen- 
dence. The fact that Dr. Price frequented the 
St. Paul’s coffee-house is sufficient proof that 
its clients were not restricted to clergymen of 
the established church. | 

More miscellaneous was the patronage of 
Child’s, another resort in St. Paul’s Church- 
yard. It is sometimes described as having been 
a clerical house like the St. Paul’s, and one 
reference in the Spectator gives some support - 
to that view. The writer told how a friend of 
his from the country had expressed astonish- 
ment at seeing London so crowded with doctors 
of divinity, necessitating the explanation that 
not all the persons in scarfs were of that dig- 
nity, for, this authority on London life con- 
tinued, ‘‘ a young divine, after his first degree 
in the university, usually comes hither only to — 
show himself; and on that occasion, is apt to 


Round St. Paul’s 187 


think he is but half equipped with a gown and 
eassock for his public appearance, if he hath 
not the additional ornament of a scarf of the 
first magnitude to entitle him to the appellation 
of Doctor from his landlady and the boy at 
Child’s.’”’ There is another allusion to the 
house in the Spectator. ‘‘ Sometimes I ’’ — 
the writer is Addison —‘‘ smoke a pipe at 
Child’s, and while I seem attentive to nothing 
but the Postman, overhear the conversation of 
every table in the room.’’ Apart from such 
decided lay patrons as Addison, Child’s could 
also claim a large constituency among the med- 
ical and learned men of the day. 
Notwithstanding its ecclesiastical name, the 
Chapter coffee-house in Paul’s Alley was not 
a clerical resort. By the middle of the eight- 
eenth century it had come to be recognized as © 
the rendezvous of publishers and booksellers. 
‘<The conversation here,’’ to appeal to the 
Connoisseur once more, ‘‘ naturally turns upon 
the newest publications; but their criticisms 
are somewhat singular. When they say a good 
book, they do not mean to praise the style or 
‘sentiment, but the quick and extensive sale 
of it. That book in the p.rase of the Conger 
is best, which sells most; and if the demand 
for Quarles should be greate: than for Pope, 


188 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


he would have the highest place on the rubric- 
post. There are also many parts of every work 
liable to their remarks, which fall not within 
the notice of less accurate observers. A few 
nights ago I saw one of these gentlemen take 
up a sermon, and after seeming to peruse it 
for some time with great attention, he declared 
that ‘it was very good English.’ The reader 
will judge whether I was most surprised or 
diverted, when I discovered that he was not 
commending the purity and elegance of the dic- 
tion, but the beauty of the type; which, it 
seems, is known among printers by that ap- 
pellation. We must not, however, think the 
members of the Conger strangers to the deeper 
parts of literature; for as carpenters, smiths, 
masons, and all mechanics, smell of the trade 
they labour at, booksellers take a peculiar turn 
from their connexions with books and au- 
thors.’’ 

Could the writer of that gentle satire have 
looked forward about a quarter of a century 
he would have had knowledge on which to have 
based a greater eulogy of the Congers. It 
should be explained perhaps that Conger was 
the name of a club of booksellers founded in 
1715 for co-operation in the issuing of expen- 
sive works. Booklovers of the present genera- 


Round St. Paul’s 189 


tion may often wonder at the portly folios of 
bygone generations, and marvel especially that 
they could have been produced at a profit when 
readers were so comparatively few. Many of 
those folios owed their existence to the scheme 
adopted by the members of the Conger, a 
scheme whereby several publishers shared in 
the production of a costly work. 

Such a sharing of expense and profit was 
entered into at that meeting at the Chapter 
coffee-house which led to Dr. Johnson’s 
‘* Lives of the English Poets.’’ The London 
booksellers of that time were alarmed at the 
invasion of what they called their literary 
property by a Scottish publisher who had pre- 
sumed to bring out an edition of the English 
poets. To counteract this move from Edin- 
burgh the decision was reached to print ‘‘ an 
elegant and accurate edition of all the English 
poets of reputation, from Chaucer down to the 
present time.’’ The details were thoroughly 
debated at the Chapter coffee-house, and a dep- 
utation was appointed to wait upon Dr. John- 
son, to secure his services in editing the series. — 
Johnson accepted the task, ‘‘ seemed exceed- 
ingly pleased ’’ that it had been offered him, 
and agreed to carry it through for a fee of two 
hundred pounds. His moderation astonished 


190 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


Malone; ‘‘ had he asked one thousand, or even 
fifteen hundred guineas, the booksellers, who 
knew the value of his name, would doubtless 
have readily given it.’’ 

But writers of books as well as makers and 
sellers of books could be found on occasion 
within the portals of the Chapter coffee-house. 
Two memories of Goldsmith, neither of them 
pleasant, are associated with the house. One 
is concerned with his acceptance of an invita- 
tion to dinner here with Charles Lloyd, who, 
at the end of the meal, walked off and left his 
guest to pay the bill. The other incident intro- 
duces the vicious William Kenrick, that hack- 
writer who slandered Goldsmith without cause 
on so many occasions. Shortly after the pub- 
lication of one of his libels in the press, Ken- 
rick was met by Goldsmith accidentally in the 
Chapter and made to admit that he had lied. 
But no sooner had the poet left the house than 
the cowardly retractor began his abuse again 
to the company at large. 

Chatterton, too, frequented the house in his 
brief days of London life. ‘‘ I am quite famil- 
iar at the Chapter Coffee-House,’’ he wrote his 

mother, ‘‘ and know all the geniuses there.’’ — 
And five years later there is this picture of the 
democratic character of the resort from the 


Round St. Paul’s 191 


shocked pen of one who had been attracted 
thither by the report of its large library and 
select company: ‘‘ Here I saw a specimen of 
English freedom. A whitesmith in his apron 
and some of his saws under his arm came in, 
sat down, and called for his glass of punch and 
the paper, both which he used with as much 
ease as a lord. Such a man in Ireland and, I 
suppose, in France too, and almost any other 
country, would not have shown himself with 
his hat on, nor any way, unless sent for by some 
gentleman.’’ 

Perhaps the most interesting association of 
the Chapter coffee-house was that destined to 
come to it when its race was nearly run. Ona 
July evening in 1848 the waiter was somewhat 
startled at the appearance of two simply- 
dressed, slight and timid-looking ladies seek- 
ing accommodation. Women guests were not 
common at the Chapter. But these two were 
strangers to London; they had never before 
visited the great city; and the only hostelry 
they knew was the Chapter they had heard 
their father speak about. So it was to the 
Chapter that Charlotte and Anne Bronté went 
when they visited London to clear up a difficulty 
with their publishers, Smith and Elder. Mrs. 
Gaskell describes the house as it was in those 


manning 


(192 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


July days. ‘‘ It had the appearance of a dwell- 
ing-house two hundred years old or so, such as 
one sometimes sees in ancient country towns; 
the ceilings of the small rooms were low, and 
had heavy beams running across them; the 
walls were wainscoted breast-high; the stairs 
were shallow, broad, and dark, taking up much 
space in the centre of the house. The gray- 
haired elderly man who officiated as waiter 
seems to have been touched from the very first 
by the quiet simplicity of the two ladies, and 
he tried to make them feel comfortable and at 
home in the long, low, dingy room upstairs. 
The high, narrow windows looked into the 
gloomy Row; the sisters, clinging together in 
the most remote window-seat (as Mr. Smith 
tells me he found them when he came that Sat- 
urday evening), could see nothing of motion 
or of change in the grim, dark houses oppo- 
site, so near and close, although the whole 
breadth of the Row was between.’’ If it were 
only for the sake of those startled sisters from 
the desolate Yorkshire moors one could wish 
that the Chapter coffee-house were still stand- 
ing. Butitis not. Nor are there any vestiges 
remaining of the St. Paul’s or Child’s. 

Nor will the pilgrim fare better in the adja- 
cent thoroughfare of Ludgate Hill. Not far 


Round St. Paul’s 193 


down that highway could once be found the 
London coffee-house, which Benjamin Frank- 
lin frequented, and where that informal club 
for philosophical discussions of which Dr. 
Priestly was the chairman held its social meet- 
ings. The London continued in repute among 
American visitors for many years. When 
Charles Robert Leslie, the artist, reached Lon- 
don in 1811 intent on prosecuting his art stud- 
ies, he tells how he stopped for a few days ‘‘ at 
the London Coffee-house on Ludgate Hill, with 
Mr. Inskeep and other Americans.’’ 

Further west, in the yard of that Belle Sau- 
vage inn described in an earlier chapter, there 
existed in 1730 a coffee-house known as Wills’, 
but of which nothing save one somewhat pa- 
thetic incident is on record. The memory of 
this incident 1s preserved among the manu- 
scripts of the Duke of Portland in the form of 
two letters to the Earl of Oxford. The first 
letter is anonymous. It was written to the earl 
on February 8th, 1730, in the interests of Will- 
iam Oldisworth, that unfortunate miscellane- 
ous writer whose adherence to the Stuart cause 
helped, along with a liking for tavern-life, to 
mar his career. This anonymous correspond- 
ent had learnt that Oldisworth was in a starv- 
ing condition, out of clothes likewise, and la- 


194 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


bouring under many infirmities. ‘‘ Though no 
man has deserved better of his country, yet is 
none more forgot.’’ The letter also hinted at 
the fact that Oldisworth would not complain, 
nor suffer any one to do that office for him. 
But the writer was wise enough to enclose the 
address of the man in whose behalf he made 
so adroit an appeal, that address being Wills’ 
coffee-house in the Belle Sauvage yard. 
Edward Harley, that Earl of Oxford who 
preferred above all things to surround himself 
with poets and men of letters, and whose gen- 
erosity helped to bring about his financial ruin, 
was not the man to ignore a letter of that kind. 
Some assistance was speedily on its way to 
Will’s coffee-house, for on February 21st Oldis- 
worth was penning an epistle which was to 
‘< wait in all humility on your Lordship to re- ° 
turn you my best thanks for the late kind and 
generous favour you conferred on me.’’ He 
sent the earl an ancient manuscript as token 
of his gratitude, explained that he was igno- 
rant of the one who had written in his behalf, 
and for the rest was determined to keep his 
present station, low as it was, with content 
and resignation. The inference is that Will’s — 
coffee-house was but a lowly and inexpensive 
abode and hence it is not surprising that it 


Round St. Paul’s 195 


makes so small a showing in the annals of old 
London. ' 

At the western end of Fleet Street the 
passer-by cannot fail to be attracted by the 
picturesque, timbered house which faces Chan- 
cery Lane. This unique survival of the past, 
which has been carefully restored within re- 
cent years, has often been described as ‘‘ For- 
merly the Palace of Henry VIII and Cardinal 
Wolsey.’’ Another legend is that the room 
on the first floor was the council-chamber of the 
Duchy of Cornwall under Henry, the eldest son 
of James I. More credible is the statement 
that Nando’s coffee-house was once kept under 
this roof. In the days when he was a briefless 
barrister, Thurlow was a frequent visitor here, 
attracted, it is said, as were so many more of 
the legal fraternity, by the dual merits of the 
punch and the physical charms of the land- 
lady’s daughter. Miss Humplhries was, as a 
-punster put it, ‘‘ always admired at the bar by 
the bar.’’ The future Lord Chancellor had no 
cause to regret his patronage of Nando’s. So 
convincingly did he one day prove his skill in 
argument that a stranger present bestirred 
himself, and successfully, to have the young 
advocate retained in a famous law case of the 
time, an apppointment which led to Thurlow’s 


196 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


becoming acquainted with the Duchess of 
Queensbury, with after important results. 
During those stirring days when _ the 
‘¢ Wilkes and Liberty ’’ riots caused such in- 
tense excitement in London, one worthy mer- 
chant of the city found Nando’s a valuable 
place of refuge. Arrangements had been made 
for a body of merchants and tradesmen of the 
city to wait on George III at St. James’s with 
a loyal address and as token of their sympathy 
with the position assumed by that obstinate 
monarch. But on the night before handbills 
had been scattered broadcast desiring all true 
and loyal subjects to meet on the following day 
and form a procession towards the city, taking 
particular care ‘‘ not to interfere with the Mer- 
chants going to St. James’s.’’ The handbill 
had the desired effect. The cavalcade of mer- 
chants was scattered in confusion long before 
it reached Temple-bar, and isolated members of 
the party, few in number, did their best to 
reach the royal palace by roundabout ways. 
Even so they were a sorry spectacle. For the 
other loyal subjects of the king had liberally 
bespattered them with mud. Nor was this the 
most disconcerting feature of their situation. 
Having reached the presence of their sover- 


Round St. Paul’s 197 


eign it was certainly annoying that they could 
not present the address which had brought 
them into all this trouble. But the fact was the 
address was missing. It had been committed 
to the care of a Mr. Boehm, and he was not 
present. As a matter of fact Mr. Boehm had 
fled for refuge to Nando’s coffee-house, leaving 
the precious address under the seat of his 
coach. The rioters were not aware of that 
fact, and it seems that the document was even- 
tually recovered, after his Majesty had been 
‘‘ kept waiting till past five.’’ 

There is a fitness in the fact that as Thur- 
low’s name is linked with Nando’s coffee-house 
so Cowper’s memory is associated with the 
adjacent establishment known as Dick’s. The 
poet and the lawyer had been fellow clerks in 
a solicitor’s office, had spent their time in ‘‘ gig- 
gling and making giggle ’’ with the daughters 
of Cowper’s uncle, and been boon friends in 
many ways. The future poet foretold the fame 
of his friend, and extorted a playful promise 
that when he was Lord Chancellor he would 
provide for his fellow clerk. The prophecy 
eame true, but the promise was forgotten. 
Thurlow did not even deign to notice the po- 
etical address of his old companion, nor did he 


198 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


acknowledge the receipt of his first volume of 
verse. ‘‘ Be great,’’ the indignant poet 
wrote — 


“Be great, be fear’d, be envied, be admired; 
To fame as lasting as the earth pretend, 
But not hereafter to the name of friend! ” 


For Thurlow the ungrateful, Nando’s was as- 
sociated with his first step up the ladder of 
success; for Cowper, Dick’s was the scene of 
an agony that he remembered to his dying day. 
For it was while he was at breakfast in this 
coffee-house that he was seized with one of his 
painful delusions. A letter he read in a paper 
he interpreted as a satire on himself, and he 
threw the paper down and rushed from the 
room with a resolve either to fmd some house 
in which to die or some ditch where he could 
poison himself unseen. 

Reference has already been made to the 
Rainbow as one of the famous taverns of Fleet 
Street, and also to the fact that it was a coffee- 
house ere it became a tavern. But somehow 
it was as a coffee-house that it was usually 
regarded. It is so described in 1679, in 1708, 
in 1710, and in 1736. Under the earliest date 
it appears as playing a part in the astounding 
story of Titus Oates. One of the victims of 


Round St. Paul’s 199 


that unrivalled perjurer was Sir Philip Lloyd, 
whom Oates declared had ‘‘ in a sort of bravery 
presented himself in the Rainbow coffee-house, 
and declared he did not believe any kind of 
plot against the King’s person, notwithstand- | 
ing what any had said to the contrary.’’ This 
was sufficient to arouse the enmity of the wily 
Oates, who had the knight haled before the 
council and closely examined. Sir Philip ex- 
plained that he had only said he knew of no 
other than a fantastic plot, but, as a contem- 
porary letter puts it, ‘‘ Oates had got ready 
four shrewd coffee-drinkers, then present, who 
swore the matter point blank.’’ So the per- 
jurer won again, and Sir Philip was suspended 
during the king’s pleasure as the outcome of 
his Rainbow coffee-house speech. 

But there is a pleasanter memory with which 
to bid this famous resort farewell. It is en- 
shrined in a letter of the early eighteenth cen- 
tury, wishing that the recipient might, if he 
could find a leisure evening, drop into the Rain- 
bow, where he would meet several friends of 
the writer in the habit of frequenting that 
house, gentlemen of great worth and whom it 
would be a pleasure to know. 


CHAPTER ITI 
THE STRAND AND COVENT GARDEN 


How iiaevadie the coffee-houses of Tanden 
were differentiated from each other by the 
opening of the eighteenth century is nowhere 
more clearly demonstrated than in Steele’s first 
issue of the Tatler. After hoodwinking his 
readers into thinking he had a correspondent 
‘‘in all parts of the known and knowing 
world,’’ he informed them that it was his in- 
tention to print his news under ‘‘ such dates 
of places ’? as would provide a key to the mat- 
ter they were to expect. Thus, ‘‘ all accounts 
of gallantry, pleasure, and entertainment, shall 
be under the article of White’s Chocolate-house; 
poetry, under that of Will’s Coffee-house; 
learning, under the title of the Grecian; for- 
eign and domestic news, you shall have from 
Saint James’s Coffee-house, and what else I 
have to offer on any other subject shall be dated 
from my own apartment.’’ 

Several days elapsed ere there was anything 
to report from the Grecian coffee-house, which 

. 200 


Strand and Covent Garden 201 


was situated in Devereux Court, Strand, and 
derived its name from the fact that it was kept 
by a Greek named Constantine. When it does 
make its appearance, however, the information 
given under its name is strictly in keeping with 
the character Steele gave the house. ‘‘ While 
other parts of the town are amused with the 
present actions, we generally spend the evening 
at this table in inquiries into antiquity, and 
think anything news which gives us new knowl- 
edge.’? And then follow particulars of how 
the learned Grecians had been amusing them- 
selves by trying to arrange the actions of the 
Iliad in chronological order. This task seems 
to have been accomplished in a friendly man- 
ner, but there was an occasion when a point of 
scholarship had a less placid ending. Two gen- 
tlemen, so the story goes, who were constant 
companions, drifted into a dispute at the Gre- 
clan one evening over the accent of a Greek 
word. The argument was protracted and at 
length grew angry. As neither could convince 
the other by mere words, the resolve was taken 
to decide the matter by swords. So the erst- 
while friends stepped out into the court, and, 
after a few passes, one of them was run through 
the body, and died on the spot. 

That the Grecian maintained its character 


202 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


as the resort of learned disputants may be in- 
ferred from the heated discussions which took 
place within its walls when Burke confused the ~ 
public with his imitation of the style and lan- 
guage of Bolinbroke in his ‘‘ Vindication of 
Natural Society.’’ All the critics were com- . 
pletely deceived. And Charles Macklin in par- 
ticular distinguished himself by rushing into 
the Grecian one evening, flourishing a copy of 
the pamphlet, and declaring, ‘‘ Sir, this must 
be Harry Bolinbroke; I know him by his cloven 
foot! ”’ 

Even if it were not for that fatal duel be- 
tween the two Greek scholars, there are anec- 
dotes to show that some frequenters of the house 
were of an aggressive nature. There is the 
story, for example, of the bully who insisted 
upon a particular seat, but came in one evening 
and found it occupied by another. 

‘¢ Who is that in my seat? ’’ 

‘‘ T don’t know, sir,’’ replied the waiter. 

‘¢ Where is the hat I left on it? ”’ 

‘¢ He put it in the fire.”’ 

‘‘ Did he? damnation! but a fellow who 
would do that would not mind flinging me after 
it! ’? and with that he disappeared. , 

Men of science as well as scholars gave lib- 
eral patronage to the Grecian. It was a com- 


GRECIAN COFFEE-HOUSE, 


Strand and Covent Garden 203 


mon thing for meetings of the Royal Society 
to be continued in a social way at this coffee- 
house, the president, Sir Isaac Newton, being 
frequently of the parties. Hither, too, came 
Professor Halley, the great astronomer, to 
meet his friends on his weekly visit to London 
from Oxford, and Sir Hans Sloane, that zeal- 
ous collector of curiosities, was often to be met 
at the Grecian. Nor did the house wholly lack 
patrons of the pen, for Goldsmith, among oth- 
ers, used the resort quite frequently. 

Goldsmith was also a faithful customer of 
George’s coffee-house which was situated close 
to the Grecian. This was one of the places to 
which he had his letters addressed, and the 
house figures in one of his essays as the resort 
of a certain young fellow who, Whenever he had 
occasion to ‘‘ ask his friend for a guinea, used 
to prelude his request as if he wanted two hun- 
dred, and talked so familiarly of large sums ’”’ 
that no one would have imagined him ever to 
be in need of small ones. It was the same 
young fellow at George’s who, whenever he 
wanted credit for a new suit from his tailor, 
used to dress himself in laced clothes in which 
to give the order, for he had found that to ap- 
pear shabby on such occasions defeated the 
purpose he had in view. 


204 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


Most likely Goldsmith sketched his certain 
young fellow from life. There was another 
frequenter of the place who would have pro- 
vided an original for another character study. 
This was that Sir James Lowther, afterwards 
Karl of Lonsdale, of whom the story is told 
that having one day changed a piece of silver 
in the coffee-house, and paid twopence for his 
cup of coffee, he was helped into his carriage 
and driven home, only to return a little later 
to call attention to the fact that he had been 
given a bad halfpenny in his change and de- 
mand another in exchange. All this was in 
keeping with the character of the man, for 
despite the fact that he had an income of forty 
thousand pounds a year, he was notorious for 
his miserly conduct, and would not pay even 
his just debts. 

There was another legend connected with 
George’s which Horace Walpole ought not to 
have destroyed. In telling a correspondent of 
the amusement with which he had been reading 
Shenstone’s letters, he took ocasion to charac- 
terize as vulgar and devoid of truth an anec- 
dote told of his father, Lord Orford. This was 
the story that his father, ‘‘ sitting in George’s, 
was asked to contribute to a figure of himself 
that was to be beheaded by the mob. I do re- 


Strand and Covent Garden 205 


member something like it,’’ Walpole continued, 
‘< but it happened to myself. I met a mob, just 
after my father was put out, in Hanover- 
square, and drove up to it to know what was 
the matter. They were carrying about a figure 
of my sister.’’ Walpole traded so largely in 
traditional stories himself that it was ungrate- 
ful of him to spoil so good a one. 

On the way to Bedford Street, where Wild- 
man’s coffee-house was situated, the pilgrim 
-will pass the site of the Somerset coffee-house, 
which was notable in its day from the fact that 
some of the letters of Junius were left here, 
the waiters being paid tips for taking them in. 
Wildman’s was notorious as being the favour- 
ite headquarters of the supporters of John 
Wilkes, and hence the lines of Churchill: 


* Hach dish at Wildman’s of sedition smacks; 
Blasphemy may be Gospel at Almacks. 
Peace, good Discretion, peace, — thy fears are vain; 
Ne’er will I herd with Wildman’s factious train.” 


Among the notable coffee-houses of Covent 
Garden were the Bedford, King’s, Rawthmell’s 
and Tiom’s. The first was situated under the 
Piazza, and could count among its patrons 
Fielding, Pope, Sheridan, Churchill, Garrick, 
Foote, Quinn, Collins, Horace Walpole and 


206 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


others. Its characters, according to the Con- 
noisseur, afforded a greater variety of nearly 
the same type as those to be found at George’s. 
It was, this authority asserts, crowded every 
night with men of parts. Almost every one to 
be met there was a polite scholar and a wit. 
‘¢ Jokes and bon mots are echoed from box to 
box; every branch of literature is critically 
examined, and the merit of every production 
of the press, or performance at the theatres, 
weighed and determined. This school (to 
which I am myself indebted for a great part 
of my education, and in which, though un- 
worthy, I am now arrived at the honour of be- 
ing a public lecturer) has bred up many au- 
thors, to the amazing entertainment and in- 
struction of their readers.’’ 

But the Bedford coffee-house has a more sen- 
sational association. It was here, according 
to Horace Walpole, that James Hackman spent 
his last few hours of freedom ere he murdered 
Martha Ray as she was leaving Covent Garden 
theatre on the night of April 17th, 1779. No 


tragedy of that period caused so great a sen- _ 


sation. Miss Ray had for some years been the 
mistress of the Earl of Sandwich, at whose 
house Hackman first met and fell in love with 
her, There are good reasons for believing that 


Strand and Covent Garden 207 


his love was returned for a time, but that after- 
wards Miss Ray determined to continue in her 
irregular relation with the nobleman. On 
learning that his suit was wholly hopeless, 
Hackman conceived the plan which had so fatal 
an ending. The question as to whether the fact 
that he provided himself with two pistols was 
proof that he intended to take his own life as 
well as that of Miss Ray was the theme of a 
warm discussion between Dr. Johnson and his 
friend Beauclerk, the latter arguing that it was 
not, and the former maintaining with equal cos 
fidence that it was. 

King’s coffee-house was nothing more than 
a humble shed, an early representative of the 
peripatetic coffee-stall which is still a common 
sight of London streets in the early morning. 
Kept by a Thomas King who absconded from 
Eton because he feared that his fellowship 
would be denied him, it was the resort of every 
rake according to Fielding, and, in the phrase 
of another, was ‘‘ well known to all gentlemen 
to whom beds are unknown.’’ On the other 
hand Rawthmell’s was an exceedingly fashion- 
able house, and witnessed the founding of the 
Society of Arts in 1754. It had another claim 
to slight distinction as being the resort of Dr. 
John Armstrong, the poet of the ‘‘ Art of Pre- 


208 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


serving Health,’’ and a man so generally un- 
sociable that one acquaintance described him 
as having a rooted aversion against the whole 
human race, except a few friends, and they 
were dead! ! 

Judging from a poetical allusion of 1703, 
Tom’s coffee-house was at that time a political 
resort. A little later it was distinguished for 
its fashionable gatherings after the theatre. A 
traveller through England in 1722 records that 
at Tom’s there was ‘‘ playing at Picket, and 
the best of conversation till midnight. Here 
you will see blue and green ribbons and Stars 
sitting familiarly, and talking with the same 
freedom as if they had left their quality and 
degrees of distance at home.’’ But the most 
interesting picture of this house is given by 
William Till. He writes: ‘‘ The house in 
which I reside was the famous T'om’s Coffee- 
House, memorable in the reign of Queen Anne; 
and for more than half a century afterwards: 
the room in which I conduct my business as a 
coin dealer is that which, in 1764, by a guinea 
subscription among nearly seven hundred of 
the nobility, foreign ministers, gentry, and 
geniuses of the age — was made the card-room, 
and place of meeting for many of the now illus- 
trious dead, and remained so till 1768, when a 


Strand and Covent Garden /209 


voluntary subscription among its members in- 
duced Mr. Haines, the then proprietor, to take 
in the next door westward, as a coffee-room; 
and the whole floor en swte was constructed 
into card and conversation rooms.’’ It seems 
that the house took its name originally from 
the first landlord, a Captain Thomas West, 
who, driven distracted by the agony of gout, 
committed suicide by throwing himself from 
his own windows. 

Interesting, as has been seen, as are the asso- 
ciations which cluster round the coffee-houses 
of this district already mentioned, their fame 
is slight compared with the glory of the houses 
known as Will’s and Button’s. 

Macaulay has given us a glowing picture of 
the wits’ room on the first floor at Will’s. 
Through the haze of tobacco smoke with which 
he filled the apartment we can see earls, and 
clergymen, and Templars, and university lads, 
and hack-workers. We can hear, too, the ani- 
mated tones in which discussions are being car- 
ried on, discussions as to whether ‘‘ Paradise 
Lost ’’ should have been written in rhyme, and 
many another literary question of little interest 
in these modern days. But, after all, the eye 
does not seek out earls, or clergy, or the rest; 
nor does the ear wish to fill itself with the 


210 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


sound of their voices. There is but one face, 
but one voice at Will’s in which the interest 
of this time is as keen as the interest of the 
seventeenth century. That face and voice were 
the face and voice of John Dryden. 

Exactly in what year Dryden first chose this 
coffee-house as his favourite resort is unknown. 
He graduated at Cambridge in 1654, and is next 
found in London lodging with a bookseller for 
whom he worked as a hack-writer. By 1662 
he had become a figure of some consequence in 
London life, and a year later his first play was 
acted at the King’s theatre. Then, in the pages 
of Pepys, he is seen as the centre of that group 
of the wits which he was to dominate for a 
generation. ‘‘In Covent Garden to-night,’’ 
wrote Pepys under the date February 3rd, 1664, 
‘“ going to fetch home my wife, I stopped at 
the great Coffee-house there, where I never was 
before; where Dryden, the poet, I knew at 
Cambridge, and all the wits of the town, and 
Harris the player, and Mr. Hoole, of our eol- 
lege. And, had I had time then, or could at 
other times, it will be good coming hither, for 
there, I perceive, is very witty and pleasant 
discourse.”’ 

With what persistence this tradition sur- | 
vived, the tradition of Dryden as the arbiter 


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Strand and Covent Garden 211 


of literary criticism at Will’s is illustrated by 
the story told by Dr. Johnson. When he was 
a young man he had a desire to write the life 
of Dryden, and as a first step in the gathering 
of his materials he applied to the only two 
persons then alive who had known him, Swin- 
ney and Cibber. But all the assistance the 
former could give him was to the effect that 
at Will’s Coffee-house Dryden had a particular 
chair for himself, which was set by the fire in 
winter, and removed to the balcony in summer; 
and the extent of Cibber’s information was 
that he remembered the poet as a decent old 
man, judge of critical disputes at Will’s. - But 
happily a more detailed picture of Dryden as 
the centre of the wits at Will’s has survived. 
On his first trip to London as a youth of seven- 
teen, Francis Lockier, the future dean of Peter- 
borough, although an odd-looking boy of awk- 
ward manners, thrust himself into the coffee- 
house that he might gaze on the celebrated men 
of the day. ‘‘ The second time that ever I was 
there,’’ Lockier said, ‘‘ Mr. Dryden was speak- 
ing of his own things, as he frequently did, 
especially of such as had been lately published. 
‘Tf anything of mine is good,’ says he, ‘ ’tis 
Mac Flecknoe; and I value myself: the more 
upon it, because it is the first piece of ridicule 


212 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


written in Heroics.’ On hearing this, I plucked 
up my spirit to say, in a voice just loud enough 
to be heard, that ‘ Mac Flecknoe was a very 
fine poem; but that I had not imagined it to 
be the first that ever was writ that way.’ On 
this, Dryden turned short upon me, as sur- 
prised at my interposing; asked how long I 
had been a dabbler in poetry; and added, with 
a smile, ‘ Pray, sir, what is it that you did 
imagine to have been writ so before?’ I named 
Boileau’s Lutrin, and Tassoni’s Secchia Rapita, 
which I had read, and knew Dryden had bor- 
rowed some strokes from each. ‘ ’Tis true,’ 
said Dryden, ‘I had forgot them.’ A little 
after Dryden went out, and in going spoke to 
me again, and desired me to come and see him 
next day. I was highly delighted with the invi- 
tation; went to see him accordingly, and was 
well acquainted with him after, as long as he 
lived.’’ 

As a companion to this picture in prose there 
is the poetic vignette which Prior and Mon- 
tague inserted in their ‘‘ Country Mouse and 
the City Mouse,’’ written in burlesque of Dry- 
den’s ‘* Hind and Panther.’’ 


“Then on they jogg’d; and since an hour of talk 
Might cut a banter on the tedious walk, 


Strand and Covent Garden 213 


As I remember, said the sober mouse, 

I’ve heard much talk of the Wits’ Coffee-house ; 
Thither, says Brindle, thou shalt go and see 
Priests supping coffee, sparks and poets tea ; 
Here rugged frieze, there quality well drest, 
These baffling the grand Senior, those the Test, 
And there shrewd guesses made, and reasons given, 
That human laws were never made in heaven; 
But, above all, what shall oblige thy sight, 

And fill thy eyeballs with a vast delight, 

Is the poetic judge of sacred wit, 

Who does 7’ th’ darkness of his glory sit; 

And as the moon who first receives the light, 
With which she makes these nether regions bright, 
So does he shine, reflecting from afar 

The rays he borrowed from a better star ; 

For rules, which from Corneille and Rapin flow, 
Admired by all the scribbling herd below, 

From French tradition while he does dispense 
Unerring truths, *tis schism, a damned offence, 
To question his, or trust your private sense.” 


Dryden appears to have visited Will’s every 
day. His rule of life was to devote his morn- 
ings to writing at home, where he also dined, 
and then to spend the remainder of the day at 
the coffee-house, which he did not leave till late. 
There came a night for the poet when this reg- 
ularity of habit had unpleasant consequences. 
A Newsletter of December 23rd, 1679, tells the 
story: ‘‘ On Thursday night last Mr. Dryden, 


214 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


the poet, comeing from the coffee-house in 
Covent Garden, was set upon by three or four 
fellows, and very soarly beaten, but likewise 
very much cutt and wounded with a sword. It 
is imagined that this has happened to him be- 
cause of a late satyr that is laid at his door, 
though he positively disowned it.’’ The com- 
piler of that paragraph was correct in his sur- 
mise. ‘The hired ruffians who assaulted the 
solitary poet on that December night were in 
the pay of Lord Rochester, who had taken um- 
brage at a publication which, although not writ- 
ten by Dryden, had been printed with such a 
title-page as suggested that it was his work. 
A reward of fifty pounds was offered for the 
discovery of the perpetrators of this outrage, 
but to no effect. Still it is some consolation to 
know that the cowardly Rochester immediately 
fell under suspicion as the author of the attack. 
Less reprehensible is the story told of a Mr. 
Finch, ‘‘ an ingenious young gentleman,’’ who, 
nearly a decade later, ‘‘ meeting with Mr. Dry- 
den in a coffee-house in London, publickly be- 
fore all the company wished him joy of his new 
religion. ‘ Sir,’ said Dryden, ‘ you are very 
much mistaken; my religion is the old relig- 
ion.’ ‘ Nay,’ replied the other, ‘ whatever it 
be in itself I am sure ’tis new to you, for within 


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Strand and Covent Garden 215 


these three days you had no religion at 
aut 

Dryden died in 1700 and for a time Will’s 
maintained its position as the resort of the 
poets. Did not Steele say that all his accounts 
of poetry in the Tatler would appear under the 
name of that house? But the supremacy of 
Will’s was slowly undermined, so that even in 
the Tatler the confession had soon to be made 
that the place was very much altered since 
Dryden’s time. The change had been for the 
worse. ‘‘ Where you used to see songs, epi- 
grams, and satires in the hands of every man 
you met, you now have only a pack of cards; 
and instead of the cavils about the turn of the 
expression, the elegance of the style, and the 
like, the learned now dispute only about the 
truth of the game.’’ This is all confirmed by 
that traveller who took notes in London in 
1722, and found there was playing at Picket 
at Will’s after the theatre. 

Addison was the chief cause of this trans- 
formation. And Steele helped him. The fact 
is that about 1713 Addison set up coffee-house 
keeper himself. That is to say, he was the 
means of getting one Daniel Button, once serv- 
ant with the Countess of Warwick, to open such 
an establishment in close proximity to Will’s. 


216 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


For Addison to remove his patronage from 
Will’s to Button’s meant the transference of 
the allegiance of the wits of the town also, con- 
sequently it soon became known that the wits 
were gone from the haunt of Dryden to the 
new resort affected by Addison. And a close 
scrutiny of the pages of the Guardian will re- 
veal how adroitly Steele aided Addison’s plan. 
Thus, the issue of the Guardian for June 17th, 
1713, was devoted to the habits of coffee-house 
orators, and especially to the objectionable 
practice so many had of seizing a button on 
a listener’s coat and twisting it off in the course 
of argument. This habit, however, was more 
common in the city than in the West-end coffee- 
houses; indeed, Steele added, the company at 
Will’s was so refined that one might argue and. 
be argued with and not be a button the poorer. 
All that delightful nonsense paved the way for 
a letter in the next number of the Guardian, a 
letter purporting to come from Daniel Button 
of Button’s coffee-house. 

‘*T have observed,’’ so ran the epistle, 
‘‘ that this day you made mention of Will’s 
Coffee-house, as a place where people are too 
polite to hold a man in discourse by the button. ~ 
Kverybody knows your honour frequents this 
house; therefore they will taken an advantage 


SRESt SER ear nas 


sicaggesee 


Pes eceerireisettey 
Soizccssdonssssesaestuarsensaseseees 


Peksegoahe per iaeesc eee pee snageetexcceoe sy 
Sarskag seers aeceeeenen tthe eersern sees ss 
- piiahoessstacoes 


Siuswopseerans aetecacesesas 
maverena setSesgesbages cogs gs 
piseetsrerei ey 


27 Seba s ae een nen eens 
pieetererctssapens 


ecceeteeerenett ey x 
Senses ease” 


ms Teg po easeeses naaee es 
rime metheciasseanses ee ceNs 
Brot ate ohcestante 
Puapigy eeeseet eeattee eee 
BF he, Tae seen een ne Seay 
C ohie 


Cor SA 
we 


whe 


Riatenc nto xo 


Peat 


SIR RICHARD STEELE. 


ye 


wr 


is 


Strand and Covent Garden 217 


against me, and say, if my company was as 
civil as that at Will’s, you would say so: there- 
fore pray your honour do not be afraid of 
doing me justice, because people would think 
it may be a conceit below you on this occasion 
to name the name of Your humble servant, 
Daniel Button.’’ And then there is this naive 
postscript: ‘‘ The young poets are in the back 
room, and take their places as you directed.’’ 

Nor did that end the plot. A few days later 
Steele found another occasion to mention But- 
ton’s. His plan this time was to concoct a let- 
ter from one Hercules Crabtree, who offered 
his services as lion-catcher to the Guardian, 
and incidentally mentioned that he already pos- 
sessed a few trophies which he wished to pre- 
sent to Button’s coffee-house. This lion busi- 
ness paved the way for Addison’s interference 
in the clever scheme to divert the wits from 
Will’s. Hence that paper of the Guardian 
which he wound up by announcing that it was 
his intention to erect, as a letter-box for the 
receipt of contributions, a lion’s head in imita- 
tion of those he had described in Venice, 
through which all the private intelligence of 
that commonwealth was said to pass. 

‘‘ This head,’’ he explained, ‘‘ is to open a 
most wide and voracious mouth, which shall 


4 


218 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


a 
take in such letters and papers as are conveyed 
to me by my correspondents, it being my reso- 
lution to have a particular regard to all such 
matters as come to my hands through the 
mouth of the lion. There will be under it a 
box, of which the key will be kept in my own 
custody, to receive such papers as are dropped 
into it. Whatever the lion swallows I shall 
digest for the use of the public. This head 
requires some time to finish, the workman be- 
ing resolved to give it several masterly touches, 
and to represent it as ravenous as possible. 
It will be set up in Button’s coffee-house in 
Covent-garden, who is directed to shew the way 
to the lion’s head, and to instruct young au- 
thors how to convey his works into the mouth 
of it with safety and secrecy.”’ 

That lion’s head was no myth. A fortnight 
later the leonine letter-box was actually placed 
in position at Button’s, and, after doing serv- 
ice there for some years, was used by Dr. Hill 
when editing the Inspector. It was sold in 
1804, the notice of the sale in the Annual Reg- 
ister stating that ‘‘ The admirable gilt lion’s 
head letter-box, which was formerly at But- 
ton’s coffee-house, and in which the valuable 
original copy of the Guardian was received, 
was yesterday knocked down at the Shake- 


Servantur Maginis 


isi pelectd 


LION’S HEAD AT BUTTON’S COFFEE-HOUSE, 


Strand and Covent Garden 219 


speare-tavern, Covent-garden, to Mr. Richard- 
son, for seventeen pounds ten shillings.’’ It 
changed hands again in more recent times, and | 
is now the property of the Duke of Bedford, 
who preserves it at Woburn. 

For some months after the installation of the 
lion’s head at Button’s, constant references are 
made in the Guardian to that unique letter-box, 
Addison being mainly responsible for the 
quaint conceits which helped to keep attention 
on the house where it was placed. In the final 
number of the Guardian there is a lively letter 
in response to an attack on masquerading 
which had reached the public via the lion’s 
head. ‘‘ My present business,’’ the epistle ran, 
‘is with the lion; and since this savage has 
behaved himself so rudely, I do by these pres- 
ents challenge him to meet me at the next mas- 
querade, and desire you will give orders to Mr. 
Button to bring him thither, in all his terrors, 
where, in defence of the innocence of these mid- 
night amusements, I intend to appear against 
him, in the habit of Signior Nicolimi, to try the 
merits of this cause by single combat.’’ 

But Addison and his lion’s head and Steele 
were not the only notable figures to be seen at 
Button’s. Pope was a constant visitor there, 
as he was reminded by Cibber in his famous 


220 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


letter. Those were the days when, in Cibber’s 
phrase, the author of the ‘‘ Dunciad ’’ was re- 
markable for his satirical itch of provocation, 
when there were few upon whom he did not fall 
in some biting epigram. He so fell upon Am- 
brose Philips, who forthwith hung a rod up in 
Button’s, and let Pope know that he would use 
it on him should he ever catch him under that 
roof. The poet took a more than ample re- 
venge in many a stinging line of satire after- 
wards. 

Pope was cut adrift from Button’s through 
the controversy as to which was the better ver- 
sion of the Iliad, his or Tickell’s. As the lat- 
ter belonged to the Addisonian circle, the opin- 
ion at Button’s turned in favour of his version, 
especially as Addison himself thought Tickell 
had more of Homer than Pope. ‘This ended 
Pope’s patronage of Button’s, and, indeed, it 
was not long ere the glory it had known began ~ 
to wane. Various causes combined to take 
away one and another of its leading spirits, and 
when the much-talked-of Daniel Button passed 
away in 1730 it was to a pauper’s grave. Yet 
farewell of so famous a house should not be 
made with so melancholy a story There is a 
brighter page in its history, which dates three 
years earlier. Aaron Hill had been so moved 


Strand and Covent Garden 221 


by the misfortunes of his brother poet, Richard 
Savage, that he had penned an appeal on his 
behalf and arranged for subscriptions for a 
volume of his poems. The subscriptions were 
to be left at Button’s, and when Savage called 
there a few days later he found a sum of sev- 
enty guineas awaiting him. Hill may, as has 
been asserted, have been a bore of the first 
water, but that kindly deed may stand him in 
stead of genius. 


CHAPTER IV 
FURTHER WEST 


SEVERAL favourite coffee-houses might once 
have been found in the neighbourhood of Char- 
ing Cross. One of these bore the name of the 
Cannon and was much frequented by John Phil- 
pot Curran, of whom it was said ‘‘ there never 
was so honest an Irishman,’’ and Sir Jonas 
Barrington, that other Irish judge who was at 
first intended for the army, but who, on learn- 
ing that the regiment to which he might be 
appointed was likely to be sent to America for 
active service, declined the commission, and 
requested that it might be bestowed on ‘‘ some 
hardier soldier.’’ Evidently Sir Jonas desired 
no further acquaintance with cannon than was 
involved in visiting the coffee-house of that 
name, The legend is that he and Curran af- 
fected one particular box at the end of the 
room, where they might be seen almost any day. 

In the same vicinity, but close to the Thames- 
side, was the coffee-house kept by Alexander 
Man, and known as Man’s. The proprietor had 

222 


ARO 


ong 


TTT SOUT THEE CRETE CLE 


ata 


| 


3 


* exeoonanmeartan arsine 
aTCTABN 


BRITISH COFFEE-HOUSE, 


f : : . 
— ~~ 
Ces 
S ' 
- Pee = ’ 
‘ = 
r ! - 7 5 —m 2 : 
iY u a 
= = i . 7 
; ¢ \ «= ~ 
n =F 
tv 3 ' 
( - “he 
‘ ~ & a 2 
‘ 
- ‘* 
a = rae 
4 : x 


Further West 223 


the distinction of being appointed ‘‘ coffee, tea, 
and chocolate-maker ’’ to William III, which 
gave him a place in the vast army of ‘‘ By Ap- 
pointment ’’ tradesmen, and resulted further in 
his establishment being sometimes described as 
the Royal Coffee-house. This resort had a third 
title, Old Man’s Coffee-house, to distinguish it 
from the Young Man’s, which was situated on 
the other side of the street. 

Of greater note than any of these was the 
British coffee-house which stood in Cockspur 
Street. There is a record of its existence in 
1722, and in 1759 it was presided over by the 
sister of Bishop Douglas, who was described 
as ‘fa person of excellent manners and abili- 
ties.’’ She was succeeded by a Mrs. Anderson, 
on whom the encomium was passed that she 
was ‘‘a woman of uncommon talents and the 
most agreeable conversation.’’ As the names 
of these ladies suggest, they were of Scottish 
birth, and hence it is not surprising to learn 
that their house was greatly in favour among 
visitors from north of the Tweed. That the 
Scottish peers were sometimes to be found here 
in great numbers is the only conclusion to be 
drawn from an incident recorded by Horace 
Walpole. There was a motion before the 
House of Lords for which the support of the 


224 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


Scots was required, and the Duke of Bedford 
wrote to sixteen of their number to solicit their 
votes, enclosing all the letters under one cover 
directed to the British coffee-house. It was 
under this roof, too, that the Scottish club 
called The Beeswing used to meet, one of whose 
members was Lord Campbell, that legal biog- 
rapher who shared with most of his country- 
men the ability of ‘‘ getting on.’’ The club in 
question consisted of about ten members, and 
the agreement was to meet once a month at the 
British coffee-house to dine and drink port 
wine. The other members included Spankie, 
Dr. Haslam, author of several works on insan- 
ity, Andrew Grant, a merchant of considerable 
literary acquirements, and George Gordon, 
known about town as ‘‘ the man of wit.’’ The 
conversation is described as being as good as 
any to be enjoyed anywhere in the London of 
that day, and the drinking was voted ‘‘ tre- 
mendous.’’ The last-named fact is one illus- 
tration out of many that during the latter years 
of their existence the coffee-houses of London 
did not by any means confine their liquors to 
the harmless beverage from which they took 
their name. 

Among the earliest coffee-houses to be estab- 
lished in the West-end of London was that 


“aSQOOH-HHAHOO § YALHDNVIS 


Further West 225 


opened by T'homas Slaughter in St. Martin’s 
Lane in 1692 and known as Slaughter’s. It 
remained under the oversight of Mr. Slaughter 
until his death in 1740, and continued to enjoy 
a prosperous career for nearly a century 
longer, when the house was torn down. ‘The 
bulk of its customers were artists, and the 
famous men numbered among them included 
Wilkie, Wilson, and Roubiliaec. But the most 
pathetic figure associated with its history is 
that of Abraham De Moivre, that French 
mathematician who became the friend of New- 
ton and Leibnitz. Notwithstanding his wonder- 
ful abilities he was driven to support himself 
by the meagre pittances earned by teaching 
and by solving problems in chess at Slaugh- 
ter’s. In his last days sight and hearing both 
failed, and he finally died of somnolence, 
twenty hours’ sleep becoming habitual with 
him. By the time of De Moivre’s death, or 
shortly after, the character of the frequenters 
of Slaughter’s underwent a change, for when 
Goldsmith alluded to the house in 1758 it was 
to make the remark that if a man were passion- 
ate ‘‘ he may vent his rage among the old ora- 
tors at Slaughter’s Coffee-house, and damn the 
nation, because 1 keeps him from starving.”’ 
Politics and literature were the topics most 


226 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


under discussion at the Smyrna coffee-house 
which had its location on the north side of Pall 
Mall. It makes its appearance in an early num- 
ber of the Tatler, where reference is made to 
““that cluster of wise heads ’’ that might be 
found ‘‘ sitting every evening from the left 
hand side of the fire, at the Smyrna, to the 
door.’’ Five months later Steele entered into 
fuller particulars. 

‘‘ This is to give notice,’’ he wrote, ‘‘ to all 
ingenious gentlemen in and about the cities of 
London and Westminster, who have a mind to 
be instructed in the noble sciences of music, 
poetry, and politics, that they repair to the 
Smyrna coffee-house in Pall-mall, betwixt the 
hours of eight and ten at night, where they 
may be instructed gratis, with elaborate es- 
says, by word of mouth on all or any of the. 
above-mentioned arts. The disciples are to 
prepare their bodies with three dishes of bo- 
hea, and purge their brains with two pinches 
of snuff. If any young student gives indication 
of parts, by listening attentively, or asking a 
pertinent question, one of the professors shall 
distinguish him, by taking snuff out of his box 
in the presence of the whole audience.’’ And — 
the further direction is given that ‘‘ the seat 
of learning is now removed from the corner of 


Further West 227 


the chimney on the left towards the window, 
to the round table in the middle of the floor 
over against the fire; a revolution much la- 
mented by the porters and chairmen, who were 
much edified through a pane of glass that re- 
mained broken all last summer.”’ 

That Steele and Addison knew their Smyrna 
well may be inferred from their familiar refer- 
ences to the house, and there are equal proofs 
that Swift and Prior were often within its 
doors. The Journal to Stella has many ref- 
erences to visits from the poet and the satirist, 
such as, ‘‘ ‘he evening was fair, and I walked 
a little in the Park till Prior made me go with 
him to the Smyrna Coffee-house, where I sat 
a while, and saw four or five Irish persons, who 
are very handsome, genteel] fellows, but I know 
not their names.’’? FE'rom Prior’s pen there is 
an allusion to be found in the manuscripts of 
the Marquis of Bath in a letter the poet ad- 
dressed to Lord Harley from London in the 
winter of 1719. Prior was lying low on that 
visit to town, for the main purpose of his pres- 
ence was medicinal. ‘‘ I have only seen Brown, 
the surgeon,’’ he writes, ‘‘ to whom I have 
made an auricular confession, and from him 
have received extreme unction, and applied it, 
which may soften the obduracy of my ear, and 


228 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


make it capable of receiving the impression of 
ten thousand lies which will be poured into it 
as soon as I shall take my seat at the Smyrna.’’ 

Two other figures not unknown to fame 
haunt the shades of the Smyrna, Beau Nash 
and Thomson of the ‘‘ Seasons.’’ It is Gold- 
smith who tells of the first that he used to idle 
for a day at a time in the window of the Smyrna 
to receive a bow from the Prince of Wales or 
the Duchess of Marlborough as they drove by; 
and of the second is it not on record that he 
in person took subscriptions at the Smyrna for 
the ‘‘ Four Seasons? ”’ 

In the Cocoa-Tree Club of to-day may be 
found the direct representative of the most 
famous Tory chocolate-house of the reign of 
Queen Anne. It had its headquarters first in 
Pall Mall, but removed not long after to St. 
James’s Street, the Mecca of clubland at the 
present time. Perhaps the best picture of the 
house and its ways is that given by Gibbon, who 
in his journal for November 24th, 1762, wrote: 
‘¢T dined at the Cocoa-Tree with ——, who, 
under a great appearance of oddity, conceals 
more real humour, good sense, and even knowl- 
edge, than half those who laugh at him. We 
went thence to the play, the ‘ Spanish Friar,’ 
and when it was over, retired to the Cocoa- 


Further West 229 


Tree. That respectable body, of which I have 
the honour of beimg a member, affords every 
evening a sight truly English; twenty, or per- 
haps thirty, of the first men in the kingdom in 
point of fashion and fortune, supping at little 
tables covered with a napkin in the middle of 
a coffee room, upon a bit of cold meat or a sand- 
wich, and drinking a glass of punch. At pres- 
ent we are full of King’s Councillors and Lords 
of the Bedchamber, who, having jumped into 
the ministry, make a very singular medley of 
their old principles and language with their 
modern one.’’ It is easy to infer from Gib- 
bon’s account, what was a fact, that by his time 
the house had been turned into a club, the use 
of which was restricted to members, as at the 
present time. The change was made before 
1746, when the Cocoa-Tree was the rendezvous 
of the Jacobites. One of the most curious fea- 
tures of the present premises is a carved palm- 
tree which is thrust up through the centre of 
the front rooms on the first and second floors. 
What its age is no one knows, nor who was 
responsible for the freak of botanical knowl- 
edge implied by utilizing a palm-tree as sym- 
bolical of cocoa. | 

Soon after the transformation of the house 
into a club it became notorious for the high 


230 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


play which went on under the shadow of the 
palm-tree. Walpole, for example, tells the story 
of a gamble between an Irish gamester named 
O’Birne and a young midshipman named Har- 
vey who had just fallen heir to a large estate 
by his brother’s death. The stake was for one 
hundred thousand pounds, and when O’Birne 
won he said, ‘‘ You can never pay me.’’ But 
the youth replied, ‘‘ I can, my estate will sell 
for the debt.’’ O’Birne, however, had some 
scruples left, so said he would be content with 
ten thousand pounds, and suggested another 
throw for the balance. This time Harvey won, 
and it would be interesting to know that the 
lesson had not been lost. But Walpole does 
not throw any light on that matter. 

Another lively scene took place under the 
palm-tree of the Cocoa-Tree late in the eight- 
eenth century. The principal figure on that 
occasion was Henry Bate, that militant editor 
of the Morning Post whose duel at the Adelphi 
has already been recorded. It seems that Mr. 
Bate, who, by the way, held holy orders, and 
eventually became a baronet under the name of 
Dudley, was at Vauxhall one evening with a 
party of ladies, when Fighting Fitzgerald and - 
several companions met them and indulged in 
insults. An exchange of cards followed, and 


Further West 254 


a meeting was arranged for the following morn- 
ing at the Cocoa-Tree to settle details of the in- 
evitable duel. Fitzgerald, however, was late, 
and by the time he arrived apologies had been 
tendered and accepted by Mr. Bate. When 
Fitzgerald arrived on the scene with a Captain 
Miles he insisted on a boxing-match with the 
supposed captain, who, he affirmed, had been 
~' among the assailants of the previous night. 
Mr. Bate objected, inasmuch as he did not rec- 
ognize Mr. Miles, and moreover scouted the 
indignity of settling such a matter with fists. 
He was willing to decide the dispute with sword - 
or pistol. Witzgerald, however, roused Bate’s 
ire by dubbing him a coward. After that it did 
not take many minutes to form a ring under the 
shade of the palm-tree, and in less than a quar- 
ter of an hour the ‘‘ coward ’’ had pulverized 
Captain Miles in an eminently satisfactory 
manner. 

Earlier and more sedate references to the 
Cocoa-Tree are in existence. There is, for ex- 
ample, a letter from General William Stewart, 
of October 27th, 1716, addressed to the father 
of William Pitt, placing this incident on rec- 
ord: ‘‘ The other night, at the Cocoa-Tree, I 
‘saw Colonel Pitt and your brother-in-law 
Chomeley. The former made me a grave bow 


232 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


without speaking, which example I followed. 
I suppose, he is directed to take no notice of 
me.’’ Nor should the lively episode placed to 
the credit of a spark of the town in 1726 be 
overlooked. ‘‘ The last masquerade,’’ says a 
letter of that period, ‘‘ was fruitful of quarrels. 
Young Webb had quarrelled at the Cocoa-Tree 
with Oglethorp, and struck him with his cane; 
they say the quarrel was made up.’’ But 
‘< Young Webb ’’ was evidently spoiling that 
night for more adventures, for while still in 
his cups he went to the masquerade and, meet- 
ing a German who had a mask with a great 
nose, he asked him what he did with such an 
ornament, pulled it off and slapped his face. 
‘‘ He was carried out by six grenadiers,’’ is 
the terse climax of the story. 

Florio was, of course, a frequenter of the 
Cocoa-Tree. And that his manners there as 
elsewhere must have been familiar is illus- 
trated by the fact that one of the waiters ad- 
dressed an epistle to him in the following 
terms: ‘‘ Sam, the waiter at the Cocoa-Tree, 
presents his compliaments to the Prince of 
Wales.’? The rebuke was characteristic: 
‘* You see, Sam, this may be very well between - 
you and me, but it would never do with the 
Norfolks and Arundels! ”’ 


Further West 233) 


Of course the house has its George Selwyn 
story. An American captain began it by as- 
serting that in his country hot and cold springs — 
were often found side by side, which was con- 
venient, for fish could be caught in the one and 
boiled in the other in a few minutes. The story 
was received as belonging to the ‘‘ tall ’’ order, 
until Selwyn gravely accepted it as true, be- 
cause at Auvergne ke had met a similar expe- 
rience, with the addition that there was a third 
spring which supplied parsley and butter for 
the sauce. 

Just as the Tories were faithful to the Co- 
eoa-Tree, so the Whigs were stout in their loy- 
alty to the St. James’s coffee-house nearby. 
This was the resort named by Steele as the 
origin of the political news served up in the 
Tatler, and it was favoured with many. refer- 
ences in the Spectator of Addison. The latter 
gives an amusing account of a general shift- 
round of the servants of the house owing to the 
resignation of one of their number, and in a 
later paper, devoted to coffee-house specula- 
tions on the death of the King of France, he 
gives the place of honour to the Whig resort 
as providing the most reliable information. 
‘¢ That I might be as near the fountain-head as 
possible, I first of all called at St. James’s, 


234 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


where I found the whole outward room in a 
buzz of politics. The speculations were but very 
indifferent towards the door, but grew finer as 
you advanced to the upper end of the room, and 
were so very much improved by a knot of theo- 
rists, who sat in the inner room, within the 
steams of the coffee-pot, that I there heard the 
whole Spanish monarchy disposed of, and all 
the line of Bourbon provided for in less than 
a quarter of an hour.’’ 

Politics, however, did not claim all the inter- 
est of the frequenters of the St. James’s: Ver- 
dicts were passed upon the literary products of 
the day in much the same manner as at But- 
ton’s, and it should not be forgotten that Gold- 
smith’s ‘‘ Retaliation ’’ had its origin at a 
meeting at this house. 

To judge from their present-day dignified 
appearance, no one would imagine that the 
Old Palace and the New Palace Yards at West- 
minster ever tolerated such mundane things as 
coffee-houses and taverns within their pre- | 
cincts. The evidence of history, however, 
shows that at one time there were numerous 
establishments of both kinds situated under the 
shadow of Westminster Hall and the Abbey. A ~ 
drawing not more than a century old shows 
several such buildings, and the records of the 


ome a? 


OLD PALACE YARD, WESTMINSTER, 


a * 


Further West (235, 


city enumerate public houses of the sign of the 

Coach and Horses, and the Royal Oak, and the 
White Rose as being situated in the Old Palace 
Yard, while the coffee-houses there included 
Waghorne’s and Oliver’s. Nor was it different 
with New Palace Yard. In the latter were to 
be found Miles’s coffee-house and the Turk’s 
Head, both associated with James Harrington, 
that early republican whose ‘‘ Oceana ’’ got 
him into so much trouble. One story credits 
Cromwell with having seized the manuscript 
of that work, and with its restoration having 
been effected by Elizabeth Claypole, the fa- 
vourite daughter of the Protector, whom Har- 
rington is said to have playfully threatened 
with the theft of her child if her father did not 
restore his. The author of ‘‘ Oceana ’’ seems 
to have thought the occasion of Cromwell’s 
death a favourable one for the discussion of 
his political theories, and hence the Rota club 
he founded, which used to meet at Miles’s. Au- 
brey gives a vivid account of the room at the 
coffee-house where the club met, with its 
‘* large oval-table, with a passage in the middle 
for Miles to deliver his coffee. About it sat 
his disciples and the virtuosi. Here we had © 
(very formally) a ballotting box, and ballotted 
how things should be carried by way of Ten- 


236 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


tamens. The room was every evening full as 
it could be crammed.’’ But when it became 
obvious that the Restoration would soon be an 
accomplished fact the meetings at Miles’s came 
to a sudden end. And shortly after, Harring- 
ton was committed to the Tower to meditate 
upon ideal commonwealths amid less congenial 
surroundings. 

Westminster Hall itself had a coffee-house at 
the beginning of the last century. It was 
named Alice’s, presumably after the proprie- 
tor, and was on one occasion the scene of a neat 
version of the confidence trick. The coffee- 
house was used almost entirely by barristers 
engaged in the different courts of law then 
held in Westminster Hall, and they availed 
themselves of the house for robing before going 
to the courts, and as the storeroom of their wigs 
and gowns when the business of the day was 
ended. Armed with this knowledge, a needy 
individual by the name of William Lill applied 
to the waiter at Alice’s, and made a request for 
a Mr. Clarke’s gown and wig, saying that he 
had been sent by a well-known lawyers’ wig- 
maker and dresser. It happened, however, that 
Mr. Clarke’s clerk had a little before fetched ~ 
away the wig and gown Mr. Lill was so anxious 
to receive. But when the waiter imparted that 


Further West 237 


information he did not lose his self-possession. 
He also wanted, he said, Mr. Ellison’s wig and 
gown. ‘Taken with the man’s knowledge of the. 
barrister’s names, the waiter not only handed 
over the wig and gown, but also informed the 
obliging Mr. Lill that when Mr. Ellison was 
last mm court he had left his professional coat 
and waistcoat at the coffee-house; perhaps Mr. 
Lill would take those too? Mr. Lill readily 
obliged, and disappeared. Later in the day the 
waiter’s wits began to work. Being, too, in the 
neighbourhood of the wig-maker’s shop, it oc- 
curred to him to drop in. There he learnt that 
no Mr. Lill had been sent for any wigs or 
gowns. The alarmed waiter next proceeded to 
Mr. Ellison’s office, to learn there that no mes- 
senger had been sent to Alice’s. At this stage 
the waiter, as he subsequently confessed, had 
no doubt but that Mr. Lill was ‘‘ an impostor.’’ 
Mr. Lill was more. He was courageous. Hav- 
ing secured his prey so simply on the one day, 
he came back on another, trusting, no doubt, 
that his waiter friend would be as obliging as 
before. But it was not to be; a few questions 
confirmed the waiter’s suspicions that Mr. Lill 
really was ‘‘an impostor;’’ and a. police- 
officer finished the story. One feels rather 
sorry for Mr. Lill. Of course it was wrong 


238 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


of him to annex those wigs and gowns, and sell 
them for theatrical ‘‘ properties,’’ but it is im- 
possible not to admire the pluck of a man who 
stole from a lawyer in the precincts of a law- 
court. Alice’s deserves immortality if only 
for having been the scene of that unique ex- 
ploit. 

By far the most curious of the coffee-houses 
of old London was that known as Don Saltero’s 
at Chelsea. There was nothing of the don 
really about the proprietor, whose unadorned 
name was James Salter. The prefix and the 
affix were bestowed by one of his customers, 
Vice-Admiral Munden, who, having cruised 
much upon the coast of Spain, acquired a weak- 
ness for Spanish titles, and bestowed a variant 
of one on the Chelsea coffee-house keeper. 

That same Mr. Salter was an odd character. 
Not content with serving dishes of coffee, nor 
with drawing people’s teeth and cutting their 
hair, he indulged in attempts at fiddle-playing 
and set up a museum in his house. 

Steele’s description of a visit to this many- 
sided resort is by far the best picture of its 
owner and its contents. ‘‘ When I came into 
the coffee-house,’’ he wrote, ‘‘ I had not time 
to salute the company, before my eye was di- 
verted by ten thousand gimeracks round the 


ft * 
wh ge 


ow, 
os 4 6F3 

ere eh Zoe 

aA 


é AS 


eae ae 


Vol 


eter 
Bie easse ty, 


eae oy 
vebtyg 


-HOUSE. 


S COFFEE 


, 


DON SALTERO 


FX 


Further West 239 


room, and on the ceiling. When my first as- 
tonishment was over, comes to me a sage of 
thin and meagre countenance; which aspect 
made me doubt, whether reading or fretting 
had made it so philosophic: but I very soon 
perceived him to be of that sect which the an- 
cients call Gingiviste; in our language, tooth- 
drawers. I immediately had a respect for the 
man; for these practical philosophers go upon 
a very rational hypothesis, not to cure, but to 
take away the part affected.’’ And then fol- 
lows that delightful dissertation which linked 
Mr. Salter in the line of succession with the 
barber of Don Quixote. But Steele could not 
forgive the Chelsea barber and coffee-house 
keeper one thing. ‘‘ I cannot allow the liberty 
he takes of imposing several names (without 
my license) on the collections he has made, to 
the abuse of the good people of England; one 
of which is particularly calculated to deceive 
religious persons, to the great scandal of the 
well-disposed, and may introduce heterodox 
opinions. He shews you a straw hat, which I 
know to be made by Madge Peskad, within 
three miles of Bedford; and tells you, ‘ It is 
Pontius Pilate’s wife’s chambermaid’s sister’s 
hat.’ To my knowledge of this very hat it may 
be added, that the covering of straw was never 


240 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


used among the Jews, since it was demanded 
of them to make bricks without it.’’ 

Don Saltero had a poetic catalogue of his 
curiosities, of which one verse ran: 


“Monsters of all sorts here are seen, 
Strange things in nature as they grew so; 
Some relics of the Sheba Queen, 
And fragments of the famed Bob Grune 


These treasures, however, could not avert the 
fate which was due to befall the house on Jan- 
uary 8th, 1799, when the lease of the building 
and all within were disposed of by public sale. 
A philosophic journalist, not possessing Steele’s 
sense of humour, gravely remarked of the 
Don’s gimcracks that they, with kindred collec- 
tions, helped to cherish the infancy of science, 
and deserved to be appreciated as the play- 
things of a boy after he is arrived at maturity. 
Happily the Don himself did not survive to see 
his precious treasures fetch less than ten shil- 
lings a-piece. 


II 
THE CLUBS OF OLD LONDON 


241 


CHAPTER I 
LITERARY 


Pennine the advent of a philosophical his- 
torian who will explain the psychological rea- 
son why the eighteenth century was distin- 
guished above all others in the matter of clubs, 
the fact is to be noted in all its baldness that 
the majority of those institutions which are 
famous in the annals of old London had their 
origin during that hundred years. One or two 
were of earlier date, but those which made a 
noise in the world and which for the most part 
survive to the present time were founded at 
the opening of the eighteenth century or later 
in its course. 

Although the exact date of the establishment 
of the Kit-Cat club has never been decided, the 
consensus of opinion fixes the year somewhere 
about 1700. More debatable, however, is the 
question of its peculiar title. The most recent 
efforts to solve that riddle leave it where the 
contemporary epigram left it: 

243 


944 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


“ Whence deathless Kit-Cat took his name, 

Few critics can unriddle; 

Some say from pastry-cook it came, 
And some from Cat and Fiddle. 

From no trim beaus its name it boasts, 
Gray statesmen or green wits; 

But from this pell-mell pack of toasts 
Of old Cats and young Kits.” 


Equally undecided is the cause of its origin. 
Ned :Ward, however, had no doubts on that 
score. That exceedingly frank and coarse his- 
torian of the clubs of London attributed the 
origin of the club to the astuteness of Jacob 
Tonson the publisher. That ‘‘ amphibious 
mortal,’’ according to Ward, having a sharp 
eye to his own interests, ‘‘ wriggled himself 
into the company of a parcel of poetical young 
sprigs, who had just weaned themselves of their 
mother university’’ and, having more wit than 
experience, ‘‘ put but a slender value, as yet, 
upon their maiden performances.’’ Faced 
with this golden opportunity to attach a com- 
pany of authors to his establishment, the alert 
Tonson baited his trap with mutton pies. In 
other words, according to Ward, he invited the 
poetical young: sprigs to a ‘‘ collation of oven- 
trumpery ’’ at the establishment of one named 
Christopher, for brevity called Kit, who was 


Literary 245 


an expert in pastry delicacies. The ruse suc- 
ceeded; the poetical young sprigs came in a 
band; they enjoyed their pies; and when Ton- © 
son proposed a weekly meeting of a similar 
kind, on the understanding that the poetical 
young sprigs ‘‘ would do him the honour to let 
him have the refusal of all their juvenile prod- 
ucts,’’? there was no dissentient voice. And 
thus the Kit-Cat club came into life. 

Some grains of truth may be embedded in 
this fanciful narrative. Perhaps the inception 
of the club may have been due to Tonson’s as- 
tuteness from a business point of view; but at 
an early stage of the history of the club it be- 
came a more formidable institution. Its mem- 
bership quickly comprised nearly fifty nobles 
and gentlemen and authors, all of whom found 
a bond of interest in their profession of Whig 
principles and devotion to the House of Han- 
over, shortly to be established on the throne 
of England in the person of George I. Indeed, 
one poetical epigram on the institution specific- 
ally entitles it the ‘‘ Hanover Club.’’ 

It seems that the earliest meetings of the 
club were held at an obscure tavern in Shire 
Lane, which no longer exists, but ran parallel 
with Chancery Lane near Temple-bar. This 
was the tavern kept by Christopher Cat, and 


246 Inns and Taverns of Old London > 


when he removed to the Fountain tavern in 
the Strand the club accompanied. Its principle 
place of meeting, however, was at the mansion 
of Tonson at Barn Elms, where a room was 
specially built for its accommodation. The 
dimensions of this room were responsible for 
the application of the term Kit-Cat to portraits 
of a definite size. Thus, on the suggestion of 
Tonson the portraits of the members were 
painted by Sir Godfrey Kneller for the book- 
seller, but as the walls of the room at Barn 
Elms were not lofty enough to accommodate 
full-lengths, the painter reverted to a canvas 
measuring thirty-six by twenty-eight inches, a 
size of portrait which preserves the name of 
Kit-Cat to this day. 

Apart from its influence on the nomenclature 
of art, the club is memorable for the additions 
it caused to be made to the poetic literature of 
England. One of the customs of the club was 
to toast the reigning beauties of the day reg- 
ularly after dinner, and the various poets 
among its members were called upon to cast 
those toasts in the form of verse, which were 
afterwards engraved on the toasting-glasses of 
the club. Addison was responsible for one of 
those tributes, his theme being the Lady Man- 
chester : 


Literary , 247 


“While haughty Gallia’s dames, that spread 
O’er their pale cheeks an artful red, 
Beheld this beauteous stranger there, 

In native charms divinely fair; 
Confusion in their looks they show’d; 
And with unborrow’d blushes glow’d.” 


But the Ear! of Halifax and Sir Samuel Garth 
were the most prolific contributors to Kit-Cat 
literature, the former being responsible for six 
and the latter for seven poetical toasts. For 
the Duchess of St. Albans, Halifax wrote this 
tribute: 


“The line of Vere, so long renown’d in arms, 
Concludes with lustre in St. Albans charms. 
Her conquering eyes have made their race complete; 
They rose in valour, and in beauty set.” 


To the Duchess of Beaufort these lines were 
addressed: 


“ Offspring of a tuneful sire, 
Blest with more than mortal fire; 
Likeness of a mother’s face, 
Blest with more than mortal grace ; 
You with double charms surprise, 
With his wit, and with her eyes.” 


Next came the turn of Lady Mary Churchill: 


248 Inns and Taverns of Old London’ 


“ Fairest and latest of the beauteous race, 

Blest with your parent’s wit, and her first blooming 
face ; 

Born with our liberties in William’s reign, 

Your eyes alone that liberty restrain.” 


Other ladies celebrated by Halifax included the 
Duchess of Richmond, Lady Sutherland, and 
Mademoiselle Spanheime. To Garth fell the 
task of singing the attractions of Lady Carlisle, 
Lady Essex, Lady Hyde, and Lady Wharton, 
the first three have two toasts each. Perhaps 
the most successful of his efforts was the toast 
to Lady Hyde. 


“The god of wine grows jealous of his art, 
He only fires the head, but Hyde the heart. 
The queen of love looks on, and smiles to see 
A nymph more mighty than a deity.” 


Whether the businesslike Tonson derived 
much profit from his contract with the poetical 
young sprigs does not transpire; it is of mo- 
ment, however, to recall that the members of 
the club did something to encourage literature. 
They raised a sum of four hundred guineas to 
be offered as prizes for the best comedies. It 
may be surmised that Thomas D’Urfey stood 
no chance of winning any of those prizes, for 
he was too much of a Tory to please the Kit- 


Literary 249 


Cat members. Hence the story which tells how 
the members requested Mr. Cat to bake some 
of his pies with D’Urfey’s works under them. 
And when they complained that the pies were 
not baked enough, the pastrycook made the re- 
tort that D’Urfey’s works were so cold that 
the dough could not bake for them. 

For all their devotion to literature, the Kit- 
Cats did not forget to eat, drink, and be merry. 
That their gatherings were convivial enough is 
illustrated by the anecdote of Sir Samuel 
Garth, physician to George I as well as poet. 
He protested at one meeting that he would have 
to leave early to visit his patients. But the 
evening wore on and still he stayed, until at 
length Steele reminded him of his engagements. 
Whereupon Garth pulled out a list of fifteen 
patients, and remarked, ‘‘ It matters little 
whether I see them or not to-night. Nine or 
ten are so bad that all the doctors in the world 
could not save them, and the remainder have 
such tough constitutions that no doctors are 
needed by them.’’ It is to be hoped that the 
bottle had not circulated so freely on that eve- 
ning when the little girl who afterwards be- 
came Lady Mary Wortley Montagu was ush- 
ered into the presence of the members. Her 
proud father, Lord Kingston, nominated her 


250 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


as a toast, but as the members protested that 
they did not know her, the child was sent for 
on the spot. On her arrival the little beauty 
was elected by acclamation. That triumph, she 
afterwards declared, was the happiest hour of 
her life. eet 
Despite the fact that it had no formal con- 

stitution, and that membership therein de- 
pended upon a lady’s favour, the Blue-Stocking 
Club was too important a factor in the literary 
life of old London to be overlooked. It owed 
its existence to Elizabeth Robinson, who as the 
wife of Edward Montagu found herself in the 
possession of the worldly means essential to 
the establishment of a literary salon. It had its 
origin in a series of afflictions. Mrs. Montagu 
first lost her only child, and shortly after her 
mother and favourite brother. These bereave- 
ments put her on the track of distractions, and 
a visit to Bath, where she made the acquaint- 
ance of the poet Young, appears to have sug- 
gested that she would find relief from her sor- 
rows in making her house in London a meeting- 
place for the intellectual spirits of the capital. 
At first she confined her enterprise to the giv- 
ing of literary breakfasts, but these were soon. 
followed by evening assemblies of a more pre- 
tentious nature, known as ‘‘ conversation par- 


Literary 201 


ties.’”? The lady was particular to whom she 
sent her invitations. In a letter to Garrick, 
inviting him to give a recital, she wrote: ‘‘ You 
will find here some friends, and all you meet 
must be your admirers, for I never invite Idiots 
to my house.’’ Unless when Garrick or some 
famous French actor was invited to give a 
recital, no diversion of any kind was allowed 
at these gatherings; card-playing was not tol- 
erated, and the guests were supposed to find 
ample enjoyment in the discussion of bookish 
topics. 

Why Mrs. Montagu’s assemblies were 
dubbed the Blue-Stocking Club has never been 
definitely decided. On the one hand the term 
is supposed to have originated from the fact 
that Benjamin Stillingfleet, taking advantage 
of the rule which stipulated that full dress was 
optional, always attended in blue worsted in- 
stead of black silk stockings. But the other 
theory derives the name from the fact that the 
ladies who frequented the gatherings wore 
‘‘ blue stockings as a distinction ’’ in imita- 
tion of a fashionable French visitor of the time. 

Plenty of ridicule was bestowed upon Mrs. 
Montagu and her ‘‘ conversation parties,’’ but 
there seems some truth in the contention of 
Hannah More that those ‘‘ blue-stocking ”’ 


252 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


meetings did much to rescue fashionable life 
from the tyranny of whist and quadrille. 
Whether Mrs. Montagu really possessed any 
literary ability is a matter which does not call 
for discussion at this late hour, but it is some- 
thing to her credit that she was able to attract 
under her roof such men as Horace Walpole, 
Dr. Johnson, Burke, Garrick, Reynolds, and 
many other conspicuous figures of the late 
eighteenth century. The hostess may have 
wished her guests to credit her with greater 
knowledge than she really had; Johnson said 
she did not know Greek, and had but a slight 
knowledge of Latin, though she was willing her 
friends should imagine she was acquainted with 
both; but the same authority was willing to 
admit that she was a very extraordinary 
woman, and that her conversation always had 
meaning. But, as usual, we must turn to a 
member of her own sex for the last word in the 
matter. Fanny Burney met her frequently, 
and made several recording entries in her 
diary. Here is the first vignette: ‘‘ She is mid- 
dle-sized, very thin, and looks infirm; she has 
a sensible and penetrating countenance, and the 
air and manner of a woman accustomed to be- 
ing distinguished, and of great parts. Dr. 
Johnson, who agrees in this, told us that a Mrs. 


Literary 253. 


Fo ie nn A AR RE NT a ea TH 
Hervey, of his acquaintance, says she can re- 
member Mrs. Montagu trying for this same air 
and manner. Mr. Crisp has said the same:. 
however, nobody can now impartially see her, 
and not confess that she has extremely well 
succeeded.’’ And later there is this entry: 
‘< We went to dinner, my father and I, and met 
Mrs. Montagu, in good spirits, and very unaf- 
fectedly agreeable. No one was there to 
awaken ostentation, no new acquaintance to 
require any surprise from her powers; she 
was therefore natural and easy, as well as in- 
forming and entertaining.”’ 

Almost to the end of her long life Mrs. Mon- 
tagu maintained her Blue-Stocking Club. So 
late as 1791, when she had reached her seventy- 
first year, she gave a breakfast of which Fanny 
Burney wrote: ‘‘ The crowd of company was 
such that we could only slowly make our way 
in any part. There could not be fewer than 
four or five hundred people. It was like a full 
Ranelagh by daylight.’’ That other breakfast- 
giver, Samuel Rogers, who only knew Mrs. 
Montagu towards the close of her life, de- 
scribed her as ‘‘ a composition of art ’’ and as 
one ‘‘ long attached to the trick and show of 
life.”? But the most diverting picture of the 
Queen of the Blue-Stockings was given by 


254 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


Richard Cumberland in a paper of the Ob- 
server. In answer to one of her invitation 
ecards he arrived at her salon before the rest 
of the company, and had opportunity to ob- 
serve that several new publications, stitched in 
blue paper, were lying on the table, with scraps 
of paper stuck between the leaves, as if to mark 
where the hostess had left off reading. Va- 
nessa, for under that title did Cumberland pre- 
sent Mrs. Montagu, entered the room shortly 
afterwards, dressed in a petticoat embroidered 
with the ruins of Palmyra. The lady is made 
to mistake the author for the inventor of a 
diving-bell, and to address him accordingly, 
with delightful results. The various visitors are 
described in the same humourous manner, and 
then comes the climax. ‘‘ Vanessa now came 
up, and desiring leave to introduce a young 
muse to Melpomene, presented a girl in a white 
frock with a fillet of flowers twined round her 
hair, which hung down her back in flowing 
curls; the young muse made a low obeisance 
in the style of an oriental salaam, and with the 
most unembarrassed voice and countenance, 
while the poor actress was covered with 
blushes, and suffering torture from the eyes of — 
all the room, broke forth as follows.’’ But the 
recorder of that particular meeting of the 


Literary 255 


Blue-Stocking Club could endure no more. He 
fled the house as hastily as though he had just 
learnt it was infected with the plague. h 

Although several lists are printed which pro- 
fess to give the names of ‘‘ the principal clubs 
of London,’’ they may be searched in vain for 
that one which ean rightly claim to be The Club. | 
Nevertheless, ignorance of its existence can 
hardly be reckoned a reproach in view of 
the confession of Tennyson. When asked by 
a member, the Duke of Argyll, to allow him to 
place his name in nomination, Tennyson re- 
joined, ‘‘ Before answering definitely, I should 
like to know something about expenses. ‘ The 
Club?’ It is either my fault or my misfortune 
that I have never heard of it.’’ When the poet 
made that confession he was in his fifty-sixth 
year, and up to that time, apparently, had not 
read his Boswell. Or if he had, he was not 
aware that the club Reynolds had founded in 
1764 under the name of The Club, of which the 
title had subsequently been changed to the Lit- 
erary Club, still existed under its original des- 
ignation. 

Another fact is likely to confuse the historian 
of this club unless he is careful. Owing to the 
fact that Dr. Johnson was one of the original 
members, and dominated its policy after his 


256 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


af 
usual autocratic manner, it is sometimes known 
as Dr. Johnson’s Club. However, there is no 
disputing the fact that the credit of its origin 
belongs to the ‘‘ dear knight of Plympton,’’ as 
the great painter was called by one of his 
friends. The idea of its establishment at once 
won the approval of Johnson, and it started 
on its illustrious career having as its members 
those two and Edmund Burke, Dr. Nugent, 
Topham Beauclerk, Bennet Langton, Oliver 
Goldsmith, Anthony Chamier and Sir John 
Hawkins. Soon after its foundation, the num- 
ber of members was increased to twelve, then 
it was enlarged to twenty, and subsequently to 
twenty-six, then to thirty, and finally to thirty- 
five with a proviso that the total should never 
exceed forty. 

To set forth a list of the members of The 
Club from 1764 to the present year would be 
to write down the names of many of the men 
most eminent in English history. In Boswell’s 
time those who had been admitted to its select 
eirele included David Garrick, Adam Smith, 
Edward Gibbon, Sir William Jones, Sir Will- 
iam Hamilton, Charles James Fox, Bishop 
Percy, Dr. Joseph Warton, and Richard Brins- ~ 
ley Sheridan. In more modern days the mem- 
bers have included Tennyson, Macaulay, Hux- 


Literary 257 


ley, Gladstone, Lord Acton, Lord Dufferin, 
W. H. E. Lecky and Lord Salisbury. The limit 
of membership is still maintained; it is yet 
the rule that one black ball will exclude; and 
the election of a member is still announced in 
the stilted form which Gibbon drafted by way 
of a joke: ‘‘ Sir, I have the pleasure to inform 
you that you had last night the honour to be 
elected as a member of The Club.’’ 

As The Club had no formal constitution it 
was an easy matter to regulate its gatherings by 
the convenience of the members. ‘Thus, at first 
the meetings were held at seven on Monday eve- 
nings, then the day was changed to Friday, and 
afterwards it was resolved to come together 
once a fortnight during the sitting of Parlia- 
ment. Although’ admission was so strictly 
guarded that its membership was accounted a 
rare honour, The Club does not appear to have 
been in a flourishing condition in its second 
decade. Otherwise Beauclerk would hardly 
have written, ‘‘ Our club has dwindled away 
to nothing; nobody attends but Mr. Chamier, 
and he is going to the East Indies. Sir Joshua 
and Goldsmith have got into such a round of 
pleasures that they have no time.’’ Two or 
three years later Edmund Malone, the literary 
critic and Shakesperian scholar, was moving 


258 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


heaven and earth to secure his own election. 
‘< T have lately,’’ he wrote to a member, ‘‘ made 
two or three attempts to get into your club, but 
have not yet been able to succeed — though I 
have some friends there—Johnson, Burke, 
Steevens, Sir J. Reynolds and Marlay — which 
in so small a society is a good number. At 
first they said, I think, they thought it a respect 
to Garrick’s memory not to elect one for some 
time in his room— which (in any one’s case 
but my own I should say) was a strange kind 
of motive -—for the more agreeable he was, 
the more need there is of supplying the want, 
by some substitute or other. But as I have no 
pretensions to ground even a hope upon, of 
being a succedaneum to such a man —the ar- 
gument was decisive and I could say nothing 
to it. ‘ Anticipation’ Tickell and J. Town- 
shend are candidates as well as myself — and 
they have some thoughts of enlarging their 
numbers; so perhaps we may be all elected 
together. I am not quite so anxious as Ag- 
mondisham Vesey was, who, I am told, had 
couriers stationed to bring him the quickest 
intelligence of his success.’’ 

Malone appears to have thought that it was 
a mere subterfuge to instance the death of Gar- 
rick as a reason for not electing him. But it 


- Literary 259 


was nothing of the kind. The Club did actually 
impose upon itself a year’s widowhood, so to 
speak, when Garrick died. And yet his election 
had not been an easy matter. That was largely 
his own fault. When Reynolds first mentioned 
The Club to him, he ejaculated in his airy man- 
ner, ‘‘ [ like it much; I think I shall be of you.”’ 
Of course Reynolds reported the remark to 
Johnson, with a result that might have been 
anticipated. ‘* He’ll be of us,’’ Johnson re- 
peated, and then added, ‘‘ How does he know 
we will permit him? The first duke in England 
has no right to hold such language.’’ Other 
recorders of Johnson’s conversation credit him 
with threatening to black-ball the actor, and 
with the expression of the wish that he might 
have one place of resort where he would be 
free of the company of the player. Whatever 
Johnson’s attitude was, the fact remains that 
Garrick’s election was opposed for a consid- 
erable time, though when he was made a mem- 
ber he approved himself a welcome addition to 
the circle. 

Unconsciously amusing is the account Bos- 
well gives of his own election. The Club had 
been in existence some nine years when the 
fatal night of the balloting arrived. Beau- 
elerk had a dinner party at his house before 


260 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


the club-meeting, and when he and the other 
members left for the ceremony the anxious 
Boswell was committed to the hospitality of 
Lady Di, whose ‘‘ charming conversation ”’ 
was not entirely adequate to keep up his 
spirits. In a short time, however, the glad 
tidings of his election came, and the fussy lit- 
tle Scotsman hurried off to the place of meet- 
ing to be formally received. It is impossible 
to read without a smile the swelling sentences 
with which he closes his narrative. He was 
introduced ‘‘ to such a society as can seldom 
be found. Mr. Edmund Burke, whom I then 
saw for the first time, and whose splendid tal- 
ents had long made me ardently wish for his 
acquaintance; Dr. Nugent, Mr. Garrick, Dr. 
Goldsmith, Mr. (afterwards Sir William) 
Jones, and the company with whom I had 
dined. Upon my entrance, Johnson placed 
himself behind a chair, on which he leaned as 
on a desk or pulpit, and with humourous for- | 
mality gave me a charge, pointing out the con- 
duct expected from me as a good member of 
this club.’? There was probably more than 
‘‘ humourous formality ’’ at the back of John- 
son’s mind that night. He was responsible for 
Boswell’s election, and may well have had a 


Literary 261 


doubt or two as to how that inconsequential 
person would behave in such a circle. 

As Johnson had had his way in the case of 
Boswell, he could not very well object when 
some were proposed as members with whom, 
from the political and religious point of view, 
he had little sympathy. But he had the grace 
to regard the matter with philosophy. When 
its numbers were increased to thirty, he de- 
clared he was glad of it, for as there were sev- 
eral with whom he did not like to consort, some- 
thing would be gained by making it ‘‘ a mere 
miscellaneous collection of conspicuous men, 
without any determinate character.’’ The po- 
litical difficulty was felt by other members. 
That fact is oppressively illustrated by an ac- 
count of a meeting recorded by Dr. Burney, 
the father of the talented Fanny, in a letter 
to his daughter, dated January 31st, 1793, at 
a time, consequently, when excitement still ran 
high at the execution of Louis XVI of France: 
‘* At the Club on Tuesday, the fullest I ever 
knew, consisting of fifteen members, fourteen 
all seemed of one mind, and full of reflections 
on the late transaction in France; but, when 
about half the company was assembled, who 
should come in but Charles Fox! There were 


262 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


already three or four bishops arrived, hardly 
one of whom could look at him, I believe, with- 
out horror. After the first bow and cold sal- 
utation, the conversation stood still for several 
minutes. During dinner Mr. Windham, and 
Burke, Jun., came in, who were obliged to sit 
at a side table. All were boutonnés, and not a 
word of the martyred king or politics of any 
kind was mentioned; and though the company 
was chiefly composed of the most eloquent and 
loquacious men in the kingdom, the conversa- 
tion was the dullest and most uninteresting I 
ever remember at this or any such large meet- 
ing.’’ There were evidently serious disadvan- 
tages then in the mixed nature of the club, as 
there have been since. For example, how did 
Gladstone meet Huxley after his Gadarene 
swine had been so unmercifully treated by the 
man of science? 

When Johnson reached his seventy-fourth 
year, and found himself the victim of infirmi- 
ties which prompted him to seek his social in- 
tercourse near at hand, he conceived the idea 
of founding what was known as his Essex 
Street Club. One of his first invitations was 
sent to Reynolds, but the painter did not see 
his way to join. The members included the 
inevitable Boswell, the Hon. Daines Barring- 


Literary 263 


ton, famous for his association with Gilbert 
White, and others whom Boswell noted as men 
of distinction, but whose names are no more 
than names at this distance. Johnson drew up 
the rules of the club, which restricted its mem- 
bership to two dozen, appointed the meetings 
on Monday, Thursday and Saturday of each 
week, allowed a member to introduce a friend 
once a week, insisted that each member should 
_ spend at least sixpence at each gathering, en- 
forced a fine of threepence for absence, and 
laid down the regulation that every individual 
should defray his own expense. And a final 
rule stipulated a.penny tip for the waiter. The 
meeting-place was a tavern in Essex Street, 
known as the Essex Head, of which the host 
was an old servant of Mr. Thrale’s. Boswell, 
as in duty bound, seeing he was a member, de- 
clared there were few societies where there 
was better conversation or more decorum. And 
he added that eight years after the loss of its 
‘* great founder ’’ the members were still hold- 
ing happily together. But it was founded too 
late in the day to gather around it many nota- 
ble Johnsonian associations, and after his 
death it was, on Boswell’s showing, too happy 
to have any history. 

Among the informal clubs of old London, a 


264 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


distinguished place belongs to that assemblage 
of variously-talented men, who, under the title 
of the Wittenagemot abrogated to themselves 
the exclusive use of a box in the north-east 
corner of the Chapter coffee-house. It found 
a capable if terse historian in one of its mem- 
bers, who explains that the club had two sec- 
tions. The one took possession of the box at 
the earliest hour of the morning, and from their 
habit of taking the papers fresh from the news- 
men were called the Wet Paper Club. In the 
afternoon the other section took possession, 
and were as keen to scan the wet evening pa- 
pers as their colleagues to peruse those of the 
forenoon. Among the members of the Witten- 
agemot were Dr. Buchan, the author of a 
standard treatise on medicine, who although a 
Tory was so tolerant of all views that he was 
elected moderator of the meetings; a Mr. Ham- 
mond, a manufacturer, who had not been absent 
for nearly forty-five years; a Mr. Murray, a 
Scottish Episcopal minister, who every day ac- 
complished the feat of reading through at least 
once all the London papers; a ‘‘ growling. per- 
son of the name of Dobson, who, when his 
asthma permitted, vented his spleen ’’ upon 
both sides of politics; and Mr. Robison the 


Literary 265 


publisher, and Richard, afterwards Sir Rich- 
ard, Phillips, so keenly alert in recruiting for 
his Monthly Magazine that he used to attend 
with a waistcoat pocket full of guineas as an 
earnest of his good intentions and financial 
solvency. 

Perhaps, however, the most original member 
of the Wittenagemot was a young man of the 
name of Wilson, to whom the epithet of 
‘< Long-Bow ’’ was soon applied on account of 
the extraordinary stories he retailed concern- 
ing the secrets of the upper ten. Just as he 
appeared to be established in the unique circle 
at the Chapter he disappeared, the cause being 
that he had run up a bill of between thirty and 
forty pounds. The strange thing was, however, 
that the keeper of the coffee-house, a Miss 
Brun, begged that if any one met Mr. Wilson 
they would express to him her willingness to 
give a full discharge for the past and future 
eredit to any amount, for, she said, ‘‘ if he 
never paid us, he was one of the best customers 
we ever had, contriving, by his stories and con- 
versation, to keep a couple of boxes crowded 
the whole night, by which we made more punch, 
and brandy and water, than from any other 
single customer.’’ But the useful Long-Bow 


266 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


Wilson was never seen again, and several years 
later the Wittenagemot itself died of disintegra- 
tion. It was more fortunate, however, than 
scores of similar clubs in old London, of which 
the history is entirely wanting. 


CHAPTER II 
SOCIAL AND GAMING 


NerruHer of the literary societies described in 
the previous chapter could claim to be a club 
in the present accepted meaning of that term. 
Even Dr. Johnson’s famous definition, ‘‘ An 
assembly of good fellows, meeting under cer- | 
tain conditions,’’ needs amplification. Perhaps 
the most satisfactory exposition is that given 
in ‘‘ The Original ’’? which was applied in the 
first instance to the Atheneum. ‘‘ The build- 
ing,’’ said Walker, ‘‘ is a sort of palace, and 
is kept with the same exactness and comfort 
as a private dwelling. Every member is a mas- 
ter without any of the trouble of a master. He 
can come when he pleases, and stay away as 
long as he pleases, without anything going 
wrong. He has the command of regular serv- 
ants without having to pay or to manage them. 
He can have whatever meal or refreshment he 
wants, at all hours, and served up with the 
cleanliness and comfort of his own house. He 
orders just what he pleases, having no interest 

267 


268 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


to think of but his own. In short, it is impos- 
sible to suppose a greater degree of liberty in 
living.’’ This is somewhat copious for a defi- 
nition, but it would be difficult to put into 
smaller compass the various traits which 
marked the social and gaming clubs of old 
London. 

All those qualities, however, were not in evi- 
dence from the first. They were a matter of 
growth, of adaptation to needs as those needs 
were realized. The evolution of the club in 
that sense is nowhere better ulustrated than 
in the case of White’s, which can claim the 
proud honour of being the oldest among Lon- 
don clubs. It was established as a Chocolate- 
house about 1698, and as such was a resort 
open to all. Even in those days it was notori- 
ous for the high play which went on within 
its walls. ‘Swift has recorded that the Earl of 
Oxford never passed the building in St. . 
James’s Street without bestowing a curse upon 
it as the bane of half the English nobility. And 
a little later it was frankly described as ‘‘a 
‘Den of Thieves.”’ 

Fire destroyed the first White’s a little more 
than a generation after it was opened. Its 
owner at that time was one named Arthur, and 
the account of the conflagration tells how his 


(7461 ay uo s.syooug pup jfa7 ay} uo sany A, burmoygy) 
‘“LHAULS S,SHNVE “LS 


eer 


5 


Wake: 
LED 


AN Be 
2252 HRay 


Social and Gaming 269 


wife leaped out of a window two stories high 
onto a feather bed and thus escaped without 
injury. George II went to see the fire, accom- 
panied by the Prince of Wales, both of whom 
encouraged the firemen with liberal offers of 
money. But royal exhortations did not avail 
to save the building; it was utterly consumed, 
with a valuable collection of paintings. 

Two or three years after the opening of the 
new building White’s ceased to be a public re- 
sort as a Chocolate-house and became a club 
in the strict meaning of the word. It remained 
under the direction of Mr. Arthur till his death 
in 1761, and then passed into the control of 
Robert Mackreth, who had begun his career 
as a billiard-marker in the establishment. 
Mackreth married Arthur’s only daughter a 
few months after her father’s death, and thus 
gained an assured hold on the property, which 
he seems to have retained till his death, al- 
though managing the club through an agent. 
This agent was known as ‘‘ the Cherubim,’’ 
and figures in the note Mackreth addressed to 
George Selwyn when he retired from the active 
oversight of the club. ‘‘ Sir,’’ he wrote, 
‘* Having quitted business entirely and let my 
house to the Cherubim, who is my near rela- 
tion, I humbly beg leave, after returning you 


270 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


my most grateful thanks for all favours, to 
recommend him to your patronage, not doubt- 
ing by the long experience I have had of his 
fidelity but that he will strenuously endeavour 
to oblige.’’ Before this change took place the 
club had removed to its present premises, 
which, however, have been considerably altered 
both inside and out. The freehold of the house 
realized forty-six thousand pounds when of- 
fered for sale a generation ago. 

From a study of the club records, which ex- 
tend back to 1736, it is possible to trace its 
evolution to the close corporation it has be- 
come. Rules of a more and more stringent 
nature were gradually adopted, but at the same 
time its reputation for gambling was on the 
increase. There was hardly any probability 
upon which the members did not stake large 
sums of money. The marriage of a young lady 
of rank led to a bet of one hundred guineas 
that she would give birth to a child before a 
certain countess who had been married several 
months earlier; another wager was laid that 
a member of infamous character would be the 
first baronet hung; and when a man dropped 
dead at the door of the club and was carried 
into the building, the members promptly began 
betting whether he was dead or not, and pro- 


social and Gaming 271 


tested against the bleeding of the body on the 
plea that it would affect the fairness of the 
wagers. Well might Young write in one of 
his epistles to Pope: 


“* Clodio dress’d, dane’d, drank, visited, (the whole 
And great concern of an immortal soul!) 
Oft have I said, ‘ Awake! exist! and strive 
For birth! nor think to loiter is to live!’ 
As oft I overheard the demon say, 
Who daily met the loiterer in his way, 
‘T'll meet thee, youth, at White’s:’ the youth replies, 
‘T’ll meet thee there,’ and falls his sacrifice ; 
His fortune squander’d, leaves his virtue bare 
To every bribe, and blind to every snare.” 


Another witness to the prevalent spirit of 
White’s at this time is supplied by Lord Lyt- 
telton in a private letter, wherein he wrote that 
he had fears, should his son become a member 
of that club, the rattling of a dice-box would 
‘shake down all the fine oaks of his estate. 
Mackreth manifested great worldly wisdom 
in addressing himself to George Selwyn when 
he retired from the active management of the 
club, for he knew that no other member had 
so much influence in the smart set of the day. 
Selwyn was a member of Brooks’s as well, 
and for a time divided his favours pretty 
equally between the two houses, but in his lat- 


272 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


be en f 
ter years seems to have felt a preference for 
White’s. The incidental history of the club for 
many years fmds more lively chronicle in his 
letters than anywhere else, for he was constant 
in his attendance and was the best-known of 
‘ its members. Through those letters we catch 
many glimpses of Charles James Fox at all 
stages of his strange career. We see him, for 
example, loitering at the club drinking hard 
till three o’clock in the morning, and find him 
there sitting up the entire night preceding his 
mother’s death, planning a kind of ‘‘ itinerant 
trade, which was of going from horse-race to 
horse-race, and so, by knowing the value and 
speed of all the horses in England, to acquire 
a certain fortune.’’ Later, we see the brilliant 
statesman flitting about the club rooms, ‘‘ as 
much the minister in all his deportment, as if 
he had been in office forty years.”’ 

Among the countless vignettes of club life 
at White’s as they crop up in Selwyn’s letters 
it is difficult to pick and choose, but a few taken 
almost at random will revive scenes of a long- 
past time. Here is one of a supper-party in 
1781: ‘‘ We had a pretty group of Papists — 
Lord Petres at the head of them — some Pa- — 
pists reformed, and one Jew. A club that used 
to be quite intolerable is now becoming tol- 


Social and Gaming 273 


erating and agreeable, and Scotchmen are nat- 
uralized and received with great good humour. 
The people are civil, not one word of party, 
no personal reflections.’’?’ A few days later 
Selwyn tells this story against himself. ‘‘ On 
my return home I called in at White’s, and in 
a minute or two afterwards Lord Loughbor- 
ough came with the Duke of Dorset, I believe 
the first time since his admittance. I would 
be extraordinarily civil, and so immediately 
told him that I hoped Lady Loughborough was 
well. I do really hope so, now that I know that 
she is dead. But the devil a word did I hear 
of her since he was at your house in St. James’s 
Street. He stared at me, as a child would have 
done at an Iroquois, and the Duke of Dorset 
seemed tout confus. I felt as if I looked like 
an oaf, but how I appeared God knows. I 
turned the discourse, as you may suppose.”’ 
And here is a peep of a gambling party at faro. 
‘<T went last night to White’s, and stayed there 
till two. The Pharo party was amusing. Five 
such beggars could not have met; four lean 
crows feeding on a dead horse. Poor Parsons 
held the bank. The punters were Lord Car- 
marthen, Lord Essex, and one of the Fau- 
quiers; and Denbigh sat at the table, with 
what hopes I know not, for he did not punt. 


274 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


Essex’s supply is from his son, which is more 
than he deserves, but Malden, I suppose, gives 
him a little of his milk, like the Roman lady 
to her father.’’ shy 

Other glimpses might be taken such as would 
give point to Rowlandson’s caricature of a 
later day in which he depicted a scene in ‘‘ The 
Brilliants ’’? club-room. The rules to be ob- 
served in this convivial society set forth that 
each member should fill a bumper to the first 
toast, that after twenty-four bumper toasts 
every member might fill as he pleased, and that 
any member refusing to comply with the fore- 
going was to be fined by being compelled to 


swallow a copious draught of salt and water. 


Rowlandson did not overlook the gambling 
propensities of such clubs, as may be seen by 
his picture of ‘‘ HO, or the Fashionable Vow- 
els.”’? By 1781 there were swarms of these 
E O tables in different parts of London, where 
any one with a shilling might try his luck. 
They had survived numerous attempts at their 
suppression, some of which dated as far back 
as 1731. 

All the characteristic features of White’s 
were to be found at Brooks’s club on the oppo- 
site side of St. James’s Street, the chief differ- 
ence between the two being that the former was 


(Ainquag YISt y ur afvT qnig uopuoT fo ainqoors09 uospunjmory ¥) 
“SINVITIINE THE 


boa 


FRAME TA ec aera er aa erties 


cae. 


Social and Gaming 275 


the recognized haunt of the Tories and the lat- 
ter of the Whigs. This political distinction is 
underlined in Gillray’s amusing caricature of 
1796, in which he depicted the ‘‘ Promised 
-Horrors of the French Invasion.’’ The draw- 
ing was an ironical treatment of the evil effects 
Burke foretold of the ‘‘ Regicide Peace,’’ and 
takes for granted the landing of the French, 
the burning of St. James’s Palace and other 
disasters. According to the artist, the inva- 
ders have reached the vicinity of the great 
clubs, and are wreaking vengeance on that 
special Tory club — White’s — while Brooks’s 
over the way is a scene of rejoicing. The fig- 
ures hanging from the lamp-post are those of 
Canning and Jackson, while Pitt, firmly lashed 
to the Tree of Liberty, is being vigorously 
flogged by Fox. 

During the earlier years of its history 
Brooks’s was known as Almack’s, its founder 
having been that William Almack who also 
established the famous assembly-rooms known 
by his name. The club was opened in Pall 
Mall as a gaming-salon in 1763, and it speedily 
acquired a reputation which even White’s 
would have been proud to claim. Walpole 
relates that in 1770 the young men of that time 
lost five, ten, fifteen thousand pounds in an 


276 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


evening’s play. The two sons of Lord Holland 
lost thirty-two thousand pounds in two nights, 
greatly, no doubt, to the satisfaction of the 
Hebrew money-lenders who awaited gamblers 
in the outer room, which Charles Fox accord- 
ingly christened the Jerusalem Chamber. 
While it still retained its original name, Gib- 
bon became a member of the club, and Reynolds 
wished to be. ‘‘ Would you imagine,’’ wrote 
Topham Beauclerk, ‘‘ that Sir J. Reynolds is 
extremely anxious to be a member of Almack’s? 
You see what noble ambition will make men 
attempt.’’ Gibbon found the place to his lik- 
ing. ‘‘ Town grows empty,’’ he wrote in June, 
1776, ‘‘ and this house, where I have passed 
very agreeable hours, is the only place which 
still invites the flower of English youth. The 
style of living, though somewhat expensive, is 
exceedingly pleasant; and, notwithstanding 
the rage of play, I have found more entertain- 
ment and even rational society here than in | 
any other club to which I belong.’’ 

Two years later Almack’s became Brooks’s. 
Why the original proprietor parted with so 
valuable a property is not clear, but the fact 
is indisputable that in 1778 the club passed into 
the possession of a wine merchant and money- 
lender of the name of Brooks, whose fame was 


CAnypny fq ainjoning D WoL) 
"NOISVANI HONGYA AHL AO SUOUNOH GASINON ,, 


ce 


Social and Gaming — 277 


celebrated a few years later by the poet Tick- 
ell. 
“Liberal Brooks, whose speculative skill 
Is hasty credit, and a distant bill; 
Who, nursed in clubs, disdains a vulgar trade, 
Exults to trust, and blushes to be paid.” 


It was the new owner who built the premises 
in which the club still meets, but that partic- 
ular speculation does not appear to have pros- 
pered, for the story is that he died in poverty. 

Under the new régime the house kept up its 
reputation for high play. But there was a time 
soon after the change when its future did not 
look promising. Thus in 1781 Selwyn wrote: 
‘* No event at Brooks’s, but the general opin- 
ion is that it is en decadence. Blue has been 
obliged to give a bond with interest for what 
he has eat there for some time. This satisfies 
both him and Brooks; he was then, by provi- 
sion, to sup or dine there no more without pay- 
ing. Jack Townshend told me that the other 
night the room next to the supper room was 
full of the insolvents or freebooters, and no 
supper served up; at last the Duke of Bolton 
walked in, ordered supper; a hot one was 
served up, and then the others all rushed in 
through the gap, after him, and eat and drank 
in spite of Brooks’s teeth.’’ A state of affairs 


278 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


which goes far to explain why the club was in 
a precarious condition. 

Charles Fox was of course as much at home 
at Brooks’s as White’s. It was, naturally, 
more of a political home for him than the Tory 
resort. This receives many illustrations in the 
letters of Selwyn, especially at the time when 
he formed his coalition with Lord North. Hven 
then he managed to mingle playing and pol- 
itics. ‘‘ I own,’’ wrote Selwyn, ‘‘ that to see 
Charles closeted every instant at Brooks’s by 
one or other, that he can neither punt or deal 
for a quarter of an hour but he is obliged to 
give an audience, while Hare is whispering 
and standing behind him, like Jack Robinson, 
with a pencil and paper for mems., is to me a 
scene la plus parfaitement que l’on puisse wma- 
gmer, and to nobody it seems more risible 
than to Charles himself.’’? The farce was being 
continued a few days later. ‘‘I stayed at 
Brooks’s this morning till between two and 
three, and then Charles was giving audiences 
in every corner of the room, and that idiot 
Lord D. telling aloud whom he should turn 
out, how civil he intended to be to the Prince, 
and how rude to the King.’’ | 

Notwithstanding his preference for White’s, 
Selwyn exercised his voting power at Brooks’s 


I 


GAMBLING SALOON AT BROOKS’S CLUB. 


Social and Gaming 279 


in a rigid manner. For some reason, probably 
because he could not boast a long descent, 
Sheridan’s nomination as a member provoked 
his opposition. Fox, who had been enamoured 
of Sheridan’s witty society, proposed him on 
numerous occasions and all the members were 
earnestly canvassed for their votes, but the 
result of the poll always showed one black ball. 
When this had gone on for several months, it 
was resolved to unearth the black-baller, and 
the marking of the balls discovered Selwyn to 
be the culprit. Armed with this knowledge, 
Sheridan requested his friends to put his name 
up again and leave the rest to him. On the 
night of the voting, and some ten minutes be- 
fore the urn was produced, Sheridan arrived 
at the club in the company of the Prince of 
Wales, and on the two being shown into the 
candidates’ waiting-room a message was sent 
upstairs to Selwyn to the effect that the Prince 
wished to speak to him below. The unsuspect- 
ing Selwyn hurried downstairs, and in a few 
minutes Sheridan had him absorbed in a di- 
verting political story, which he spun out for 
a full halfhour. Ere the narrative was at an 
end, a waiter entered the room and by a pre- 
arranged signal conveyed the news that Sheri- 
dan had been elected. Excusing himself for a 


280 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


few minutes, Sheridan remarked as he left to 
go upstairs that the Prince would finish the 
story. But of course the Prince was not equal 
to the occasion, and when he got hopelessly 
stuck he proposed an adjournment upstairs 
where Sheridan would be able to complete his 
own yarn. It was then Selwyn realized that 
he had been fooled, for the first to greet him 
upstairs was Sheridan himself, now a full mem- 
ber of the club, with profuse bows and. thanks 
for Selwyn’s ‘‘ friendly suffrage.’’ Happily 
Selwyn had too keen a sense of humour not to 
make the best of the situation, and ere the 
evening was over he shook hands with the new 
member and bade him heartily welcome. 

Far less hilarious was that evening when the 
notorious George Robert Fitzgerald forced his 
way into the club. As this bravo had survived 
numerous duels — owing to the fact, as was 
stated after his death, that he wore a steel 
cuirass under his coat—and was of a gen- 
erally quarrelsome disposition, he was not re- 
garded as a desirable member by any of the 
London clubs. But he had a special desire to 
belong to Brooks’s, and requested Admiral 
Keith Stewart to propose him as a candidate. 
As the only alternative would have been to 
fight a duel, the admiral complied with the 


Social and Gaming 281 


request, and on the night of the voting Fitz- 
gerald waited downstairs till the result was 
declared. When the votes were examined it 
was discovered that every member had cast in 
a black ball. But who was to beard the lion in 
his den below? The members agreed that the 
admiral should discharge that unpleasant duty, 
and on his protesting that he had fulfilled his 
promise by proposing him, it was pointed out, 
that as there was no white ball in the box, 
Fitzgerald would know that even he had not 
voted for his admission. Posed for a moment 
the admiral at length suggested that one of 
the waiters should be sent to say that there 
was one black ball, and that the election would 
have to be postponed for another month. But 
Fitzgerald would not credit that message, nor 
a second which told him a recount had shown 
two black balls, nor a third which said that 
he had been black balled all over. He was sure 
the first message implied a single mistake, that 
the second had been the result of two mistakes 
instead of one, and the third convinced him 
that he had better go upstairs and investigate 
on his own account. This he did in spite of 
all remonstrance, and when he had gained the 
room where the members were assembled he 
reduced the whole company to perplexity by 


982 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


asking each in turn whether he had cast a black 
ball. Of course the answer was in the negative 
in every case, and the triumphant bully nat- 
urally claimed that he had consequently been 
elected unanimously. Proceeding to make him- 
self at home, and to order numerous bottles of 
champagne, which the waiters were too fright- 
ened to refuse, he soon found himself sent to 
Coventry and eventually retired. As a precau- 
tion against a repetition of that night it was 
resolved to have half a dozen sturdy constables 
in waiting on the following evening. But their 
services were not required. Fighting Fitz- 
gerald never showed himself at the club again, 
though he boasted everywhere that he had been 
elected unanimously. 

Perhaps it is hardly surprising that the na- 
tional dish of England was laid under contri- 
bution for the name of a club, but it is some- 
what confusing to find that in addition to the 
Beef Steak Club founded in the reign of Queen 
Anne there was a Beef Steak Society of which 
_ the origin is somewhat hazy. The former so- 
ciety is described with great gusto by Ned 
Ward, who had for it many more pleasant ad- 
jectives than he could find for the Kit-Cat 
Club. The other society appears to have owed 
its existence to John Rich, of Covent Garden 


Social and Gaming - 283 


theatre, and the scene-painter, George Lam- 
bert. For some unexplained reason, but prob- 
ably because of its bohemian character, the 
club quickly gained many distinguished ad- 
herents, and could number royal scions as well 
as plebeians in its circle. According to Henry 
B. Wheatley, the ‘‘ room the society dined in, 
a little Escurial in itself, was most appropri- 
ately fitted up: the doors, wainscoting, and 
roof of good old English oak, ornamented-with 
gridirons as thick as Henry VII’s Chapel with 
the portcullis of the founder. ‘The society’s 
badge was a gridiron, which was engraved 
upon the rings, glass, and the forks and spoons. 
At the end of the dining-room was an enormous 
grating in the form of a gridiron, through 
which the fire was seen and the steaks handed 
from the kitchen. Over this were the appro- 
priate lines : — 


“<Tf it were done when ’tis done, then *twere well 
It were done quickly.’ 


Saturday was from time immemorial the day 
of dining, and of late years the season com- 
menced in November and ended in June.’’ The 
last elected member of the fraternity was 
known as Boots, and, no matter how high his 


284 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


social rank, there were certain lowly duties he 
had to discharge until set free by another new- 
comer. There was another officer known as 
the Bishop, whose duty it was to sing the grace, 
and to read to each new member, who was 
brought in blindfolded, the following oath of 
allegiance: ‘‘ You shall attend duly, vote im- 
partially, and conform to our laws and orders 
obediently. You shall support our dignity, 
promote our welfare, and at all times behave 
as a worthy member of this sublime society. 
So Beef and Liberty be your reward.’’ Al- 
though there is a Beef Steak Club in existence 
to-day, it must not be identified with either of 
the two described above. 

Another St. James’s Street club which can 
date back to the middle of the eighteenth cen- 
tury is that known as Boodle’s. The building 
was erected somewhere about 1765, but has 
been materially improved in more recent years. 
Presumably it takes its singular and not eupho- 
nious name from its founder, but on that point 
no definite information is forthcoming. Prac- 
tically its only claim to distinction resides in 
the fact that Gibbon, who was almost as fond 
of clubs as Pepys was of taverns, was a mem- 
ber, as readers of his correspondence will rec- 
ollect. In 1773 and the following year the great 


Social and Gaming 285 


historian appears to have used the club as his 
writing-room, for many of his letters of those 
years are on Boodle’s note-paper. One of the 
epistles recalls the fact that the clubs of Lon- 
don were wont to hold their great functions, 
such as balls or masquerades, at the Pantheon 
in Oxford Street, erected as a kind of in-town 
rival to Ranelagh. It was opened in 1772, and 
on the fourth of May two years later Gibbon 
wrote: ‘‘ Last night was the triumph of Boo- 
dle’s. Our masquerade cost two thousand 
guineas; a sum that might have fertilized a 
province, vanished in a few hours, but not 
without leaving behind it the fame of the most 
splendid and elegant féte that was perhaps ever 
given in a seat of the arts and opulence. It 
would be as difficult to describe the magnifi- 
cence of the scene, as it would be easy to record 
the humour of the night. The one was above, 
the other below, all relation. I left the Pan- 
theon about five this morning.’’ Gibbon does 
not note that two ‘‘ gentlemen,’’ coming from 
that masquerade dressed in their costumes, 
‘‘ used a woman very indecently,’’ and were so 
mauled by some spectators that they had dif- 
ficulty in escaping with their lives. It is to be 
hoped they were not members of Boodle’s, who, 
on the whole, appear to have been somewhat 


286 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


inoffensive persons. At any rate they allowed 
Gibbon ample quietude for his letter-wri- 
ting. 

Two other clubs of some note in their day are 
now nothing but a memory. The first of these, 
the Dover House, was formed by George IV 
when Prince of Wales in opposition to Brooks’s, 
where two of his friends had been black-balled. 
He placed it in the care of one Weltzie, who 
had been his house steward, and for a time it 
threatened to become a serious rival to the 
other establishments in St. James’s Street. 
There is Selwyn’s confession that the club be- 
gan to alarm the devotees of Brooks’s, for it 
lived well, increased in numbers, and was chary 
in the choice of members. That, surely, was 
the club of which Selwyn tells this vivid story. 
‘¢'The Duke of Cumberland holds a Pharaoh 
Bank, deals standing the whole night; and last 
week, when the Duke of Devonshire sat down 
to play, he told him there were two rules; one 
was, ‘not to let you punt more than ten 
guineas;’ and the other, ‘ no tick.’ Did you 
ever hear a more princely declaration? Derby 
lost the gold in his pocket, and the Prince of 
Wales lent him fifty guineas; on which the 
Duke of Cumberland expressed some surprise, 
and said he had never lent fifty pounds in his 


Social and Gaming 287 


whole life. ‘ Then,’ says the Prince of Wales, 
‘it is high time for you to begin.’ ’’ 

Notwithstanding the promise it gave, Welt- 
zie’s club does not seem to have had a pro- 
tracted history. Nor did the Alfred Club sur- 
vive a half century. It was one of the earliest 
clubs to cater for a distinct class, and may have 
failed because it was born out of due time. 
This resort for men of letters, and members of 
kindred taste, does not appear to have been a 
lively place in its first years, for at that time 
Lord Dudley described it as the dullest place in 
the world, full of bores, ‘an ‘* asylum of doting 
Tories and drivelling quidnunes.’’ Nor was 
Byron, another member, much more compli- 
mentary. His most favourable verdict pro- 
nounced the place a little too sober and literary, 
while later he thought it the most tiresome of 
London clubs. Then there is the testimony of 
another member who said he stood it as long as 
he could, but gave in when the seventeenth 
bishop was proposed, for it was impossible to 
enter the place without being reminded of the 
catechism. 

Because Arthur’s Club is described as hav- 
ing been founded in 1811 that is no reason for 
overlooking the fact that its age is much more 
venerable than that date would imply. The 


288 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


word ‘‘ founded ’’ is indeed misleading; a 
more suitable term would be ‘‘ reconstructed.’’ 
For that is what happened in 1811. The club 
can really trace an ancestry back to 1756, when 
it was the ‘‘ Young Club ’’ at Arthur’s, the 
freedom of which Selwyn desired to present in 
a dice box to William Pitt. That the club has 
maintained the old-time spirit to a remarkable 
degree may be inferred from the fact that no 
foreigners are admitted as members, and from 
the further regulation which does not allow a 
member to entertain a friend at the club. 
There is a ‘‘ Strangers’ room ’’ in which vis- 
itors may wait for members, and where they 
may be served with light refreshments as a 
matter of courtesy, but none save members are 
allowed in the public rooms of the building. 
This rigid exclusiveness has not militated 
against the prosperity of the club. Despite a 
high entrance fee and a considerable annual 
subscription, candidates have to wait an av- 
erage of three years for election to its limited 
circle of six hundred. Which goes to show that 
the old type of London club is in no danger of 
extinction just yet. 


IV 
PLEASURE GARDENS OF OLD LONDON 


289 


Wey 


ab 


CHAPTER I 
VAUXHALL 


Numerous and diversified as were the out- 
door resorts of old London, no one of them 
ever enjoyed the patronage of the gardens at 
Vauxhall. Nor can any pleasure resort of the 
English capital boast so long a history. For 
nearly two centuries, that is, from about 1661 
to 1859, it ministered to the amusement of the 
citizens. 

At the outset of its career it was known as 
New Spring Gardens, and it continued to be 
described as Spring Gardens in the official an- 
nouncements till 1786, although for many years 
previously the popular designation was Vaux- 
hall. The origin of that name is involved in 
obscurity, but it is supposed to have been de- 
rived from a family of the name of Faux who 
once held the manor. 

For the earliest pictures of the resort we 
must turn to the pages of Pepys, whose first 
visit to the gardens was paid in May, 1662. 
On this occasion he was accompanied by his 

291 


292 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


wife, the two maids, and the boy, the latter dis- 
tinguishing himself by creeping through the 
hedges and gathering roses. Three years later 
Pepys went to the gardens on several occasions 
within a few weeks of each other, the first visit 
being made in the company of several Admi- 
ralty friends, who, with himself, were ill at ease 
as to what had been the result of the meeting 
between the English and Dutch fleets. Still, 
on this, the ‘‘ hottest day that ever I felt in 
my life,’’ Pepys did not fail to fmd enjoyment 
in walking about the garden, and stayed there 
till nine o’clock for a moderate expenditure of 
sixpence. Not many days later he was back 
again, this time alone and in a philosophic 
mood. The English fleet had been victorious, 
and the day was one of thanksgiving. So the 
diarist strolled an hour in the garden observing 
the behaviour of the citizens, ‘‘ pulling of cher- 
ries, and God knows what.’’ Quite a different 
scene met his gaze on his third visit that year; 
the place was almost deserted, for the dreaded 
plague had broken out and London was empty. 

Then came the year of the Great Fire, and 
Pepys was in too serious a mood to wend his 
way to Vauxhall. But he had recovered his 
spirits by the May of 1667, and gives us this 
record of a visit of that month: ‘‘ A great deal 


Vauxhall 293 


of company, and the weather and garden pleas- 
ant: and it is very pleasant and cheap going 
thither, for a man may go to spend what he 
will, or nothing, all as one. But to hear the 
nightingale and other birds, and hear fiddles, 
and there a harp, and here a Jew’s trump, and 
here laughing, and there fine people walking, 
is mighty divertising. Among others, there 
were two pretty women alone, that walked a 
great while, which being discovered by some 
idle gentlemen, they would needs take them up; 
but to see the poor ladies how they were put to 
it to run from them, and they after them, and 
sometimes the ladies put themselves along with 
other company, then the other drew back; at 
last, the last did get off out of the house, and 
took boat and away. I was troubled to see 
them abused so; and could have found in my 
heart, as little desire of fighting as I have, to 
have protected the ladies.’’ But a time was 
to come, on a later visit, when Pepys found 
himself in the company of a couple who were 
just as rude as the gentlemen he had a mind 
to fight. For on a May evening the next year 
he fell in with Harry Killigrew and young New- 
port, as ‘‘ very rogues as any in the town,’’ 
who were ‘‘ ready to take hold of every woman 
that comes by them.’’ Yet Pepys did not shake 


294 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


their company; instead he went with the 
rogues to supper in an arbour, though it made 
his heart ‘‘ ake ’’ to listen to their mad talk. 
When sitting down to his diary that night he 
reflected on the loose company he had been in, 
but came to the conclusion that it was not 
wholly unprofitable to have such experience of 
the lives of others. Perhaps he really enjoyed 
the experience; at any rate, he was back again 
the following evening, and saw the young New- 
port at his tricks again. Nor was that rogue 
singular in his behaviour. Pepys had other 
illustrations on subsequent visits of the rude- 
ness which had become a habit with the gallants 
of the town. 

By the numerous references which may be 
found in the comedies of the Restoration period 
it is too obvious that Vauxhall fully sustained 
its reputation as a resort for the ‘‘ rogues ”’ 
of the town. But, happily, there are not lack- 
ing many proofs that the resort was also 
largely affected by more serious-minded and 
respectable members of the community. It is 
true they were never free from the danger of 
coming in contact with the seamy side of Lon- 
don life, but that fact did not deter them from 
seeking relaxation in so desirable a spot. There 
is a characteristic illustration of this blending 


Vauxhall 295 


of amusement and annoyance in that classical 
number of the Spectator wherein Addison de- 
scribed his visit to the garden with his famous 
friend Sir Roger de Coverley. As was usual 
in the early days of the eighteenth century, and 
for some years later, the two approached the 
garden by water. They took boat on the 
Thames at Temple-stairs, and soon arrived at 
the landing-place. It was in the awakening 
month of May, when the garden was in the first 
blush of its springtime beauty. ‘‘ When I con- 
sidered,’’ Addison wrote, ‘‘ the fragrancy of 
the walks and bowers, with the choirs of birds 
that sung upon the trees, and the loose tribe 
of people that walked under their shades, I 
could not but look upon the place as a kind of 
Mahometan paradise. Sir Roger told me it 
put him in mind of a little coppice by his house 
in the country, which his chaplain used to call 
an aviary of nightingales. ‘ You must under- 
stand,’ said the knight, ‘ there is nothing in the 
world that pleases a man in love so much as 
your nightingale. Ah, Mr. Spectator, the many 
moon-light nights that I have walked by my- 
self, and thought on the widow by the music 
of the nightingale!’ He here fetched a deep 
sigh.’’ But the worthy old man’s fit of musing 
was abruptly broken by too tangible a reminder 


296 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


that this was indeed a kind of Mahometan para- 
dise. 

Up to 1732 Vauxhall appears to have been 
conducted in a haphazard way. That is, no 
settled policy had been followed in its manage- 
ment or the provision of set attractions. The 
owner seems to have depended too much on the 
nightingales, and the natural beauties of the 
place. From the date mentioned, however, a 
new régime began. At that time the garden 
passed into the control of Jonathan Tyers, who 
introduced many alterations and improve- 
ments. A regular charge was now made for 
admission, and season tickets in the shape of 
silver medals were instituted. Several of these 
were designed by Hogarth, in recognition of 
whose services in that and other ways Mr. 
Tyers presented him with a gold ticket entitling 
him to admission for ever. Among the im- 
provements dating from this new ownership 
was adequate provision of music. An orches- 
tra was erected, and in addition to instrumental 
music many of the most famous singers of the 
day were engaged. The innovations of Mr. 
Tyers have left their impress on the literature 
of the place in prose and verse. A somewhat 
cloying example of the latter is found in an 


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Vauxhall 297 


effusion describing the visit of Farmer Colin 
in 1741: 


“Oh, Mary! soft in feature, 
I’ve been at dear Vauxhall; 
No paradise is sweeter, 
Not that they Eden call. 


“‘ Methought, when first I entered, 
Such splendours round me shone, 
Into a world I ventured, 
Where rose another sun: 


“While music, never cloying, 
As skylarks sweet, I hear: 
The sounds I’m still enjoying, 
They'll always soothe my ear.” 


Ten years later Mr. Tyers was paid a more 
eloquent tribute by the pen of Fielding. Per- 
haps he took his beloved Amelia to Vauxhall 
for the purpose of heightening his readers’ 
impression of her beauty, for it will be remem- 
bered that she was greatly distressed by the 
admiration of some of the ‘‘ rogues ’’ of the 
place; but incidentally he has a word of high 
praise for the owner of the garden. ‘‘ To de- 
lineate the particular beauties of these gardens 
would, indeed,’’ the novelist writes, ‘‘ require 


298 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


as much pains, and as much paper too, as to 
rehearse all the good actions of their master, 
whose life proves the truth of an observation 
which I have read in some ethic writer, that a 
truly elegant taste is generally accompanied 
with an excellency of heart.’’ But Fielding 
does not quite dodge his responsibility to say 
something of the place itself, only he is adroit 
enough to accentuate his words by placing them 
in the mouth of the fair Amelia. ‘‘ The deli- 
cious sweetness of the place,’’ was her verdict, 
‘‘ the enchanting charms of the music, and the 
satisfaction which appears on every one’s 
countenance, carried my soul almost to heaven 
in its ideas.’’ That her rapture should have 
been spoilt by the impertinents who forced 
themselves on the little party later, is a proof 
that the evils which Pepys lamented were still 
in evidence at the middle of the eighteenth cen- 
tury. 

And another proof may be cited to show that 
Vauxhall was at the time in high favour with 
the smart set. It occurs in a letter to Lord 
Carlisle of July, 1745. The correspondent of 
the peer thinks he will be interested in a piece ~ 
of news from Vauxhall. One of the boxes in 
the garden was, he said, painted with a scene 
depicting a gentleman far gone in his cups, in 


Vauxhall 299 


the company of two ladies of pleasure, and his 
hat lying on the ground beside him. This ap- 
pealed so strongly to a certain marquis as 
typical of his own tastes that he appropriated 
the box for his own use, stipulating, however, 
that a marquis’s coronet be painted over the 
hat. Notwithstanding the high character at- 
tributed to him by Fielding, Mr. Tyers agreed 
to the proposal, and the waiters were given 
authority to instruct any company that might 
enter that box that it belonged to the marquis 
in question, and must be vacated if he came on 
the scene. 

Although changes were made from time to 
time, the general arrangement of Vauxhall re- 
mained as it existed at the height of Mr. Tyers’ 
tenancy. The place extended to about twelve 
acres, laid out in formal walks but richly 
wooded. The principal entrance led into what 
was known as the Grand Walk, a tree-lined 
promenade some three hundred yards in length, 
and having the South Walk parallel. The lat- 
ter, however, was distinguished by its three 
triumphal arches and its terminal painting of 
the ruins of Palmyra. Intersecting these ave- 
nues was the Grand Cross Walk, which trav- 
ersed the garden from north to south. In addi- 
tion there were those numerous ‘ Dark 


é 


300 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


Walks ’’ which make so frequent an appear- 
ance in the literature of the place. Other parts 
of the garden were known as the Rural Downs, 
the Musical Bushes, and the Wilderness. In 
the farthest removed of these the nightingales 
and other birds for which Vauxhall was famous 
contributed their quota to the attractions of 
the place. 

In addition to the supper-boxes and pavil- 
ions, which were arranged in long rows or in 
curving fashion, the buildings consisted of the 
orchestra and the Rotunda, the latter being a 
circular building seventy feet in diameter. It 
was fitted up in a style thought attractive in 
those days, was provided with an orchestra 
where the band played on wet evenings, and 
was connected with a long gallery known as 
the Picture Room. The amusements provided 
by the management varied considerably. Even 
at their best, however, they would be voted 
tame by amusement-seekers of the twentieth 
century. Fireworks took their place on the 
programme in 1798, and nearly twenty years 
later what was deemed a phenomenal attrac- 
tion was introduced in the person of Mme. 
Saqui of Paris, who used to climb a long rope 
leading to the firework platform, whence she 
descended to the accompaniment of a ‘‘ tempest 


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ENTRANCE TO VAUXHALL, 


a 


Vauxhall 301 


of fireworks.’’ One of the earliest and most 
popular attractions was that known as the Cas- 
cade, which was disclosed to view about nine 
o’clock in the evening. It was a landscape 
scene illuminated by hidden lights, the central 
feature of which was a miller’s house and 
waterfall having the ‘‘ exact appearance of 
water.’’ More daring efforts were to come 
later, such as the allegorical transparency of 
the Prince of Wales leaning against a horse 
held by Britannia, a Submarine Cavern, a 
Hermit’s Cottage, and balloon ascents. The 
most glorious of these attractions presented 
a sordid sight by daylight, but in the dim light 
of the countless lamps hung in the trees at 
night passed muster with the most critical. 

Enough evidence has been produced to show 
how the ‘‘ rogues’? amused themselves at. 
Vauxhall, but the milder pleasures of sober 
citizens have not been so fully illustrated. Yet 
there is no lack of information on that score. 
There is, for example, that lively paper in the 
Connoisseur which gives an eavesdropping re- 
port of the behaviour and conversation of a 
London merchant and his wife and two daugh- 
ters. The Connoisseur took notes from the ad- 
joining box. 

‘‘ After some talk, ‘Come, come,’ said the 


302 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


old don, ‘ it is high time, I think, to go to sup- 
per.’ 

‘‘To this the ladies readily assented; and 
one of the misses said, ‘ Do let us have a chick, 
papa.’ 

‘* ¢ Zounds! ’ said the father, ‘ they are half- 
a-crown a-piece, and no bigger than a sparrow.’ 

‘* Here the old lady took him up, ‘ You are so 
stingy, Mr. Rose, there is no bearing with you. 
When one is out upon pleasure, I love to appear 
like somebody: and what signifies a few shill- 
ings once and away, when a body is about it? ’ 

‘‘ This reproof so effectually silenced the old 
gentleman, that the youngest miss had the cour- 
age to put in a word for some ham likewise: 
accordingly the waiter was called, and dis- 
patched by the old lady with an order for a 
chicken and a plate of ham. When it was 
brought, our honest cit twirled the dish about 
three or four times, and surveyed it with a very 
settled countenance; then taking up the slice 
of ham, and dangling it to and fro on the end 
of his fork, asked the waiter how much there 
was of it. 

‘¢ ¢ A ghilling’s worth, Sir,’ said the fellow. 

‘<< Prithee,’ said the don, ‘ how much dost 
think it weighs? An ounce? A shilling an 
ounce! that is sixteen shillings per pound! 


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THE CITIZEN AT VAUXHALL, 


- Vauxhall roth Had BOB 


A reasonable profit truly! Let me see, sup- 
pose now the whole ham weighs thirty pounds; 
at a shilling per ounce, that is, sixteen shillings 
per pound, why! your master makes exactly 
twenty-four pounds of every ham; and if he 
buys them at the best hand, and salts and cures 
them himself, they don’t stand him in ten shill- 
ings a-piece.’ 

‘‘ The old lady bade him hold his nonsense, 
declared herself ashamed for him, and asked 
him if people must not live: then taking a col- 
oured handkerchief from her own neck, she 
tucked it into his shirt-collar (whence it hung 
like a bib), and helped him to a leg of the 
chicken. The old gentleman, at every bit he 
put into his mouth, amused himself with saying, 
‘ There goes two-pence, there goes three-pence, 
there goes a groat. Zounds, a man at these 
places should not have a swallow as wide as a 
tom-tit.’ ’’ 

But having been launched on a career of tem- 
porary extravagance, the honest citizen grew 
reckless. So he called for a bottle of port, and 
enjoyed it so much as to call for a second. But 
the bill brought him to his senses again, and 
he left Vauxhall with the conviction that one 
visit was enough for a lifetime. 

So long as Vauxhall existed the thinness and 


304 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


dearness of its plates of ham were proverbial. 
There is a legend to the effect that a man se- 
cured the position of carver on the understand- 
ing that he was able to cut a ham so thin that 
the slices would cover the entire garden. 
Writer after writer taxed his ingenuity to find 
metaphors applicable to those shadowy slices. 
One scribe in 1762 declared that a newspaper 
could be read through them; Pierce Egan de- 
cided that they were not cut with a knife but 
shaved off with a plane; and a third averred 
that they tasted more of the knife than any- 
thing else. 

Of course Goldsmith made his philosophical 
Chinaman visit. Vauxhall, the other members 
of the party consisting of the man in black, a 
pawnbroker’s widow, and Mr. Tibbs, the sec- 
ond-rate beau, and his wife. The Chinaman 
was delighted, and, by a strange coincidence, 
Addison’s metaphor crops up once more in 
his rapturous description. ‘‘ The illuminations 
began before we arrived, and I must confess 
that, upon entering the gardens, I found every 
sense overpaid with more than expected pleas- 
ure; the lights everywhere glimmering through 
the scarcely moving trees; the full-bodied con- 
cert bursting on the stillness of the night; the 
natural concert of the birds, in the more retired 


Vauxhall | 305 


part of the grove, vying with that which was 
formed by art; the company gaily-dressed 
looking satisfaction, and the tables spread with 
various delicacies, all conspired to fill my imag- 
ination with the visionary happiness of the 
Arabian lawgiver, and lifted me into an ecstasy 
of admiration. ‘ Head of Confucius,’ cried I 
to my friend, ‘ this is fine! this unites rural 
beauty with courtly magnificence: if we except 
the virgins of immortality that hang on every 
tree, and may be plucked at every desire, I do 
not see how this falls short of Mahomet’s para- 
dise!’ ”’ 

But the Celestial rhapsody was interrupted 
by Mr. Tibbs, who wanted to know the plan of 
campaign for the evening. This was a matter 
on which Mrs. Tibbs and the widow could not 
agree, but an adjournment to a box in the mean- 
time was accepted as a compromise. Even 
there, however, the feminine warfare was con- 
tinued, to the fmal triumph of Mrs. Tibbs, who, 
being prevailed upon to sing, not only dis- 
tracted the nerves of her listeners, but pro- 
longed her melody to such an extent that the 
widow was robbed of a sight of the water- 
works. 

No account of Vauxhall however brief should 
overlook the attractions the place had to the 


306 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


ee sees 
sentimental young lady of the late eighteenth 
century. From the character of the songs 
which the vocalists affected it might be inferred 
that love-lorn misses were expected to form the 
bulk of their audience. Perhaps that was so; 
for the Dark Walks were ideal places in which 
to indulge the tender sentiment. The elder 
daughter of the Connoisseur’s citizen confessed 
a preference for those walks because ‘‘ they 
were so solentary,’’ and Tom Brown noted that 
the ladies who had an inclination to be private 
took delight in those retired and shady avenues, 
and in the windings and turnings of the little 
Wilderness, where both sexes met and were of 
mutual assistance in losing their way. 

Smollett, however, made his impressionable 
Lydia Melford sum up the attractions of Vaux- 
hall for the young lady of the period. It is a 
tender picture she draws, with the wherry in 
which she made her journey, ‘‘ so light and 
slender that we looked like so many fairies sail- 
ing in a nutshell.’’ There was a rude awaken- 
ing at the landing-place, where the rough and 
ready hangers-on of the place rushed into the 
water to drag the boat ashore; but that mo- 
mentary disturbance was forgotten when Miss 
Lydia entered the resort. 

‘* Imagine to yourself, my dear Letty,’’ she 


Vauxhall 307 


wrote, ‘‘ a spacious garden, part laid out in de- 
lightful walks, bounded with high hedges and 
trees, and paved with gravel; part exhibiting 
a wonderful assemblage of the most picturesque 
and striking objects, pavilions, lodges, groves, 
grottos, lawns, temples, and cascades; porticos, 
colonnades, and rotundas; adorned with pillars, 
statues, and paintings; the whole illuminated 
with an infmite number of lamps, disposed in 
different figures of suns, stars, and constella- 
tions; the place crowded with the gayest com- 
pany, ranging through those blissful shades, 
or supping in different lodges, on cold colla- 
tions, enlivened with mirth, freedom, and good 
humour.’’ Lydia has a word, too, for the mu- 
sical charms of the place, and seems pleased to 
have heard a celebrated vocalist despite the 
fact that her singing made her head ache 
through excess of pleasure. All this was en- 
hanced, no doubt, by the presence of that Mr. 
Barton, the country gentleman of good for- 
tune, who was so “‘ particular ’’ in his atten- 
tions. 

Perhaps the best proof of the place Vauxhall 
occupied in popular esteem is afforded by the 
number of occasions on which the garden was 
chosen as the scene of a national event. This 
was notably the case in 1813, when a preten- 


308 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


tious festival took place in the grounds in cele- 
bration of the victory achieved at Vittoria by 
the Allies under Wellington. An elaborate 
scheme of decoration, both interior and exte- 
rior, was a striking feature of the occasion, 
while to accommodate the numerous dinner 
guests a large temporary saloon became neces- 
sary. This was constructed among the trees, 
the trunks of which were adorned with the flags 
of the Allies and other trophies. The Duke of 
York presided over the banquet, and the com- 
pany included, in addition to Wellington, most 
of the royal and other notables of the day. 
Dinner, whereat the inevitable ham appeared 
but probably not so finely cut, lasted from five 
to nearly nine o’clock, at which hour the ladies 
and general guests of the evening began to 
arrive. Vauxhall outdid itself in illuminations 
that night. And the extra attractions included 
a transparency of the King, a mammoth pic- 
ture of Wellington, a supply of rockets that 
rose to a ‘‘ superior height,’’ and innumerable 
bands, some of which discoursed music from 
the forest part of the garden, presenting some 
idea of ‘‘ soldiers in a campaign regaling and 
reposing themselves under the shade.’’ In fact, 
the whole occasion was so unusual that the 
electrified reporter of the Annual Register was 


“TIVHXOVA LV 2NAOS 


o 


xf 


Vauxhall 309 


at his wit’s end to know what to praise most. 
For a moment he was overpowered by the ex- 
alted rank of the leading personages, and then 
fascinated by the charms and costumes of the 
ladies, only to fmd fresh subjects for further 
adjectives in the fineness of the weather, the 
blaze of lights that seemed to create an arti- 
ficial day, and the unity of sentiment and dis- 
position that pervaded all alike. 

At this date, of course, the Tyers of Field- 
ing’s eulogy had been dead some years. He 
was succeeded by his two sons, one of whom, 
Tom, was a favourite with Dr. Johnson. At 
the Vittoria féte the resort was still controlled 
by the Tyers family, but it passed out of their 
possession in 1821, and had many owners be- 
fore the end came in 1859. 

Another Amelia, however, was to visit Vaux- 
hall before its gates were closed for the last 
time, — the Amelia beloved of all readers of 
‘‘ Vanity Fair.’’ Naturally, she does not go 
alone. Thackeray had too much affection for 
that gentle creature to make her face such an 
ordeal. No, there was the careless, high- 
spirited George Osborne, and the ever-faithful 
Dobbin, and the slow-witted Jos Sedley, and 
the scheming Rebecca Sharp. That Vauxhall 
episode was to play a pregnant part in the 


310 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


destiny of Becky. Such an auspicious occasion 
would surely lead to a proposal from the 
nearly-captured Jos. For a time it seemed as 
though such might be the case. Becky and her 
corpulent knight lost themselves in one of those 
famous Dark Walks, and the situation began 
to develop in tenderness and sentiment. Jos 
was so elated that he told Becky his favourite 
Indian stories for the sixth time, giving an 
opening for the lady’s ‘‘ How I should like to 
see India!’’ But at that critical moment the 
bell rang for the fireworks, and at the same 
time tolled the knell of Becky’s chances of be- 
eoming Mrs. Jos Sedley. For the fireworks 
somehow created a thirst, and the bowl of rack 
punch for which Jos called, and which he was 
left to consume, as the young ladies did not 
drink it and Osborne did not like it, speedily 
worked its disastrous effects. In short, as we 
all know, Jos made a fool of himself, and when 
he came to himself the following morning and 
saw himself as Osborne wished he should, all 
his tender passion for Becky evaporated once 
and for all. 

‘Perhaps these visitors to Vauxhall who never 
had an existence are more real to us to-day 
than all the countless thousands of men and 


Vauxhall — 311 


women who ‘really trod its gravel walks. But 
the real and the unreal alike are of the past, 
a memory for the fancy to play with as is that 
of Vauxhall itself. 


CHAPTER lt 
RANELAGH 


Durine the latter half of the eighteenth cen- 
tury Vauxhall had a serious rival in Ranelagh. 
No doubt the success of the former was the 
eause of the latter. It may have been, too, that 
as the gardens at Vauxhall became more and 
more a popular resort without distinction of 
class, the need was felt of a rendezvous which 
should be a little more select. 

No doubt exists as to how Ranelagh came by 
its name. Toward the end of the seventeenth 
century the Earl of Ranelagh built himself a 
house at Chelsea, and surrounded it with gar- 
dens which were voted the best in England for 
their size. This peer, who was Paymaster- 
General of the Forces, seems to have taken 
keen pleasure in house-planning and the laying 
out of grounds. Among the manuscripts of the | 
Marquis of Ormonde are many letters written 
by him to the bearer of that title in the early 
eighteenth century, which show that he as- 
sumed the oversight of building operations at 

312 


Ranelagh 313 


Ormonde’s London house at that time. The 
minute attention he gave to all kinds of details 
proves that he had gained experience by the 
building of his own house not many years be- 
fore. 

But Ranelagh house and gardens had a short 
history as the residence and pleasance of a 
nobleman. The ear! died in 1712, and in 1730 
it became necessary to secure an act of Par- 
lament to vest his property at Chelsea in trus- 
tees. Three years later a sale took place, and 
the house and larger portion of the grounds 
were purchased by persons named Swift and 
Timbrell. It was at this stage the project of 
establishing a rival to Vauxhall first took 
shape. The idea seems to have originated with 
James Lacy, that patriotic patentee of Drury 
Lane theatre who raised a band of two hundred 
men at the time of the Jacobite Rebellion of 
1745. He it was, also, who afterwards became 
a partner with David Garrick. But, however 
successful he was to prove as an organizer of 
volunteers, Lacy was not to shine as the foun- 
der of a rival to Vauxhall. For some unex- 
plained reason he abandoned his share in the 
Ranelagh project, and eventually the matter 
was taken in hand by Sir Thomas Robinson, 
who soon secured sufficient financial support 


314 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


to carry the plan to a successful issue. Sir 
Thomas provided a considerable share of the 
capital of sixteen thousand pounds himself, and 
took a leading part in the management of Rane- 
lagh till his death in 1777. His gigantic figure 
and cheery manners earned for him the titles 
of Ranelagh’s Maypole and Gardand of De- 
lights. 

As the gardens were already laid out in a 
handsome manner, the chief matter requiring 
attention was the planning and erection of a 
suitable main building. Hence the erection of 
the famous Rotunda, the architectural credit of 
which is given to one William Jones. But that 
honour is disputed. It is claimed that no less 
a person than Henry VIII was responsible for 
the idea on which the Rotunda was based. 
That king, according to one historian, caused 
a great banqueting-house to be erected, eight 
hundred feet in compass, after the manner of 
a theatre. ‘‘ And in the midst of the same ban- 
queting-house,’’ continued the historian, ‘‘ was 
set up a great pillar of timber, made of eight 
great masts, bound together with iron bands 
for to hold them together: for it was a hundred 
and thirty-four feet in length, and cost six 
pounds thirteen shillings and fourpence to set 
it upright. The banqueting-house was covered 


Ranelagh ; 315 


over with canvas, fastened with ropes and iron 
as fast as might be devised; and within the 
said house was painted the heavens, with stars, 
sun, moon, and clouds, with divers other things 
made above men’s heads. And above the high 
pillar of timber that stood upright in the midst, 
was made stages of timber for organs and 
other instruments to stand upon, and men to 
play on them.’’ Such, it is asserted, was the 
model the architect of the Rotunda at Ranelagh 
had in view. 

And really there appears to be good ground 
for laying this charge of constructive plagiar- 
ism against the memory of William Jones. It 
is true the building was on a scale somewhat 
smaller than that erected at the order of Henry 
VIII, for its circumference was limited to four 
hundred and fifty feet, while its greatest diam- 
eter was but one hundred and eighty-five feet. 
But the planning of the interior of the Rotunda 
bore a suspicious likeness to the royal banquet- 
ing-house. The central portion of the building 
was a square erection consisting of pillars and 
arches, and seems to have been a direct copy 
of those eight great masts. Nor did the par- 
allel end there. In the Rotunda at Ranelagh 
as in the king’s banqueting-house, this central 
construction was designed as the place for the 


316 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


musicians. And even the ceiling was some- 
thing of a copy, for that of the Rotunda was 
divided into panels, in each of which was 
painted a celestial figure on a sky-blue ground. 

On the general idea of the banqueting-house, 
however, Mr. Jones made a number of improve- 
ments. The entrances to the Rotunda were 
four in number, corresponding with the points 
of the compass, each consisting of a portico 
designed after the manner of a triumphal arch. 
The interior of the building presented, save for 
its central erection, the aspect of a modern 
opera-house. Around the entire wall was a 
circle of boxes, divided by wainscoting, and 
each decorated with a ‘‘ droll painting ’’-and 
hung with a candle-lamp. Above these was 
another tier of boxes, similarly fitted, each of 
them, fifty-two in number, having accommoda- 
tion for seven or eight persons. Higher up was 
a circle of sixty windows. Although the build- 
ing itself was constructed of wood, it could 
boast of a plaster floor, which was covered with 
matting. Scattered over that floor were nu- 
merous tables covered with red baize whereon 
refreshments were served. Such was the gen- 
eral arrangement of the Rotunda, but one alter- 
ation had speedily to be made. It was quickly 
discovered that the central erection was ill 


Ranelagh Be 


adapted for the use of the orchestra, and con- 
sequently it was transformed into four fire- 
places, which were desirable locations in the 
cold months of the year. 

Perhaps no surprise need be felt that Rane- 
lagh was not ready when it was opened. What 
public resort ever has been? The consequence 
was that there were at least two opening cere- 
monies. ‘The first took the form of a public 
breakfast on April 5th, 1742, and was followed 
by other early repasts of a like nature. One 
of these, seventeen days later, provided Horace 
Walpole with the subject of the first of his 
many descriptions of the place. ‘‘ I have been 
breakfasting this morning at Ranelagh Gar- 
dens; ’’ he wrote, ‘‘ they have built an immense 
amphitheatre, with balconies full of little ale 
houses; it is in rivalry to Vauxhall, and costs 
above twelve thousand pounds. The building 
is not finished, but they get great sums by peo- 
ple going to see it and breakfasting in the 
house: there were yesterday no less than three 
hundred and eighty persons, at eighteen pence 
a piece.’’ About a month later another inau- 
gural ceremony took place, which Walpole duly 
reported. ‘‘ Two nights ago Ranelagh Gar- 
dens were opened at Chelsea; the prince, prin- 
cess, duke, much nobility, and much mob be- 


318 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


sides were there. There is a vast amphithea- 
tre, finely gilt, painted, and illuminated; into 
which everybody that loves eating, drinking, 
staring, or crowding is admitted for twelve 
pence. The building and disposition of the 
gardens cost sixteen thousand pounds. ‘Twice 
a week there are to be ridottos at guinea tick- 
ets, for which you are to have a supper and ~ 
music. I was there last night, but did not feel 
the joy of it. Vauxhall is a little better, for the 
garden is pleasanter, and one goes by water.”’ 
In time, however, Walpole was converted to 
the superior attractions of the new resort. 
Two years later he confessed that he went 
every night to Ranelagh, that it had totally 
beaten Vauxhall, and that it had the patronage 
of everybody who was anybody. Lord Chester- 
field had fallen so much in love with the place 
that he had ordered all his letters to be directed 
thither. 

Many red-letter days are set down in the his- 
tory of Ranelagh during the sixty years of its 
existence, but its historians are agreed that 
the most famous of the entertainments given 
there was the Venetian Masquerade in honour 
of the Peace of Aix-la-Chapelle on April 26th, 
1749. For the most spirited narrative of that 
festival, recourse must be had to the letters of 


‘6ELT SHDVIANVY LY ACVYANOSVN NVILANOA 


an 


Ranelagh 319 


Walpole. Peace was proclaimed on the 25th, 
and the next day, Walpole wrote, ‘‘ was what 
was called a Jubilee Masquerade in the Vene- 
tian manner, at Ranelagh; it had nothing Ve- 
netian in it, but was by far the best understood 
and prettiest spectacle I ever saw; nothing in 
a fairy tale even surpassed it. One of the pro- 
prietors, who is a German, and belongs to the 
Court, had got my Lady Yarmouth to persuade 
the King to order it. It began at three o’clock, 
and about five people of fashion began to go. 
When you entered you found the whole garden 
filled with masks and spread with tents, which 
remained all night very commodely. In one 
quarter was a Maypole dressed with garlands 
and people dancing round it to a tabor and 
pipes and rustic music, all masqued, as were 
all the various bands of music that were dis- 
persed in different parts of the garden; some 
like huntsmen with French horns, some like 
peasants, and a troop of harlequins and scara- 
mouches in the little open temple on the mount. 
On the Canal was a sort of gondola adorned 
with flags and streamers, and filled with music, 
rowing about. All round the outside of the 
amphitheatre were shops filled with Dresden 
china, Japan, ete., and all the shopkeepers in 
mask. The amphitheatre was illuminated, and 


320 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


a a a ron | 
in the middle was a circular bower, composed 
of all kinds of firs in tubs, from twenty to 
thirty feet high: under them orange trees with 
small lamps in each orange, and below them 
all sorts of the fmest auriculas in pots; and 
festoons of natural flowers hanging from tree 
to tree. Between the arches, too, were firs, and 
smaller ones in the balconies above. There 
were booths for tea and wine, gaming tables 
and dancing, and about two thousand persons. 
In short it pleased me more than anything I 
ever saw.’’ 

But there was another side to all this. Vaux- 
hall evidently looked on with envious eyes, and 
those who were interested in the welfare of that 
resort managed to engineer opposition to the 
Venetian féte in the form of satirical prints 
and letterpress. Perhaps they did more. At 
any rate it is a significant fact that shortly 
afterwards the justices of Middlesex were 
somehow put in motion, and made such repre- 
sentations to the authorities at Ranelagh that 
they were obliged to give an undertaking not 
to indulge in any more public masques. This, 
however, did not prevent the subscription car- 
nival in celebration of a royal birthday in May, © 
1750, when there was ‘‘ much good company 
but more bad company,’’ the members of which 


Ranelagh 321 


were ‘‘ dressed or undress’d ’’ as they thought 
fit. | 

Ranelagh was evidently an acquired taste. It 
has been seen that Walpole did not take to the 
place at first, but afterwards became one of 
its most enthusiastic admirers. And there was 
a famous friend of Walpole who passed 
through the same experience. This was the 
poet Gray, who, three years after the resort was 
opened declared that he had no intention of 
following the crowd to Ranelagh. 

‘TI have never been at Ranelagh Gardens 
since they were opened,’’ is his confession to a 
friend. ‘‘ They do not succeed: people see it 
once, or twice, and so they go to Vauxhall.’’ 

‘¢ Well, but is it not a very great design, very 
new, finely lighted? ’’ 

‘‘ Well, yes, aye, very fine truly, so they 
yawn and go to Vauxhall, and then it’s too hot, 
and then it’s too cold, and here’s a wind and 
there’s a damp.”’ 

Perhaps it is something of a surprise to find 
the author of the ‘‘ Elegy ’’ interested in pub- 
lic gardens at all, but given such an interest 
it would have been thought that Ranelagh 
was more to his taste than Vauxhall. And so 
it proved in the end. Like his Eton friend Wal- 
pole, he became a convert and so hearty an 


322 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


admirer of the Chelsea resort that he spent 
many evenings there in the August of 1746. 
Other notable visitors to Ranelagh included 
Goldsmith and Sir Joshua Reynolds, and Dr. 
Johnson and Tobias Smollett. It seems more 
than likely that Ranelagh with the first couple 
figured largely in that round of pleasures which 
kept them from the meetings of The Club to 
the disgust of Beauclerk, but Goldsmith might 
have justified his visits on the plea that he was 
gathering ‘‘ local colour ’’ for that letter by 
Belinda which he introduced into the ‘‘ Citizen 
of the World.’’ No doubt he saw many a colo- 
nel there answering to that ‘‘ irresistible fel- 
low ’’ who made such an impression on Belin- 
da’s heart. ‘‘ So well-dressed, so neat, so 
sprightly, and plays about one so agreeably, 
that I vow he has as much spirits as the Mar- 
quis of Monkeyman’s Italian greyhound. I 
first saw him at Ranelagh: he shines there: 
he is nothing without Ranelagh, and Ranelagh 
nothing without him.’’ Perhaps Sir Joshua 
would have excused his idling at Ranelagh on 
the ground of looking for models, or the hints 
it afforded for future pictures. , 
With Dr. Johnson it was different. Rane- 
lagh was to him a ‘‘ place of innocent recrea- 
tion’? and nothing more. The ‘‘ coup d’eil 


Ranelagh 323 


was the finest thing he had ever seen,’’ Boswell 
reports, and then makes his own comparison 
between that place and the Pantheon. ‘‘ The 
truth is, Ranelagh is of a more beautiful form; 
more of it, or rather, indeed, the whole Ro- 
tunda, appears at once, and it is better lighted. 
However, as Johnson observed, we saw the Pan- 
theon in time of mourning, when there was a 
dull uniformity; whereas we had seen Rane- 
lagh, when the view was enlivened with a gay 
profusion of colours.’’ No small part of John- 
son’s pleasure during his visits to Ranelagh 
was derived from uncomplimentary reflections 
on the mental conditions of its frequenters. 
Boswell had been talking one day in the vein 
of his hero’s poem on the ‘‘ Vanity of Human 
Wishes,’’ and commented on the persistence 
with which things were done upon the supposi- 
tion of happiness, as witness the splendid 
places of public amusement, crowded with com- 
pany. 

‘¢ Alas, Sir,’’? said Johnson, in a kind of 
appendix to his poem, ‘‘ these are all only 
struggles for happiness. When [I first entered 
Ranelagh, it gave an expansion and gay sensa- 
tion to my mind, such as I never experienced 
any where else. But, as Xerxes wept when he 
viewed his immense army, and considered that 


324 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


SIIIlIlll—————>>>>——>>E>>E>EE>>——__—_—_—  _ _ _ __L_L_L—~E—_—E== 
not one of that great multitude would be alive 
a hundred years afterwards, so it went to my 
heart to consider that there was not one in all 
that brilliant circle, that was not afraid to go 
home and think; but that the thoughts of each 
individual there would be distressing when 
alone.’’ ! 

Smollett, like Goldsmith, made good use of 
his visits to Ranelagh. With the enterprise of 
the observant novelist, he turned his experi- 
ences into ‘‘ copy.’’ And with that ubiquity 
of vision which is the privilege of the master 
of fiction-he was able to see the place from two 
points of view. To Matt. Bramble, that devo- 
tee of solitude and mountains, the Chelsea re- 
sort was one of the worst inflictions of London. 

‘‘ ‘What are the amusements of Ranelagh? ”’ 
he asked. ‘‘ One half of the company are fol- 
lowing one another’s tails, in an eternal circle; 
like so many blind asses in an olive-mill, where 
they can neither discourse, distinguish, nor be 
distinguished; while the other half are drink- 
ing hot water, under the denomination of tea, 
till nine or ten o’clock at night, to keep them 
awake for the rest of the evening. As for the 
orchestra, the vocal music especially, it is well 
for the performers that they eannot be heard 
distinctly.’’ But Smollett does not leave Rane- 


Ranelagh » 2D 


lagh at that. Lydia also visited the place and 
was enraptured with everything. To her it 
looked like an enchanted palace ‘‘ of a genio, 
adorned with the most exquisite performances 
of painting, carving, and gilding, enlighted 
with a thousand golden lamps, that emulate 
the noon-day sun; crowded with the great, the 
rich, the gay, the happy, and the fair; glitter- 
ing with cloth of gold and silver, lace, embroid- 
ery, and precious stones. While these exulting 
sons and daughters of felicity tread this round 
of pleasure, or regale in different parties, and 
separate lodges, with fine imperial tea and 
other delicious refreshments, their ears are en- 
tertained with the most ravishing music, both 
instrumental and vocal.’’ If the management 
of Ranelagh had been on the lookout for a press 
agent, they would doubtless have preferred 
Smollett in his Lydia mood. | 

Only occasionally was the even tenor of 
Ranelagh amusement disturbed by an untoward 
event. One such occasion was due to that no- 
torious Dr. John Hill who figures so largely in 
Isaac Disraeli’s ‘‘ Calamities and Quarrels of 
Authors.’?’ Few men have tried more ways of 
getting a living than he. As a youth he was 
apprenticed to an apothecary, but in early man- 
hood he turned to botany and travelled all over. 


326 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


England in search of rare plants which he in- 
tended drying by a special process and publish- 
ing by subscription. When that scheme failed, 
he took to the stage, and shortly after wrote 
the words of an opera which was sent to Rich 
and rejected. This was the beginning of au- 
thorship with Hill, whose pen, however, brought 
more quarrels on his head than guineas into his 
pockets. And it was his authorship which con- 
nected him with the history of Ranelagh. 

One of Hill’s ventures was to provide the 
town with a daily paper called The Inspector, 
in the pages of which he made free with the 
character of an Irish gentleman named Brown. 
Usually the men Hill attacked were writers, 
who flayed him with their pens whenever they 
thought there was occasion. Hence the con- 
clusive epigram with which Garrick rewarded 
an attack on himself: 


“ For physic and farces, his equal there scarce is, 
His farces are physic, his physic a farce is.” 


But Mr. Brown was a man of action, not words. 
So he sought out his assailant at Ranelagh on 
the night of May 6th, 1752, and caned him in 
the Rotunda in the presence of a large com- 
pany. Here was excitement indeed for Rane- 
lagh, and the affair was the talk of the town for 


S 


— 


RL 


sete £9 Be 


THE ASSAULT ON DR. JOHN HILL AT RANELAGH,. 


Ranelagh 327 


many a day afterwards. Of course Hill did not 
retort in kind; on the contrary he showed him- 
self to be an abject coward and took his thrash- 
ing without any bodily protest. That he made 
loud vocal protest seems likely enough. Hence 
the point of the pictorial satire which was 
quickly on sale at the London print-shops. 
This drawing depicted Hill being seized by the 
ear by the irate Mr. Brown, who is represented 
as exclaiming, ‘‘ Draw your sword, libeller, if 
you have the spirit of a mouse.”’ 

The only reply of Hill was, ‘‘ What? against 
an illiterate fellow that can’t spell? I prefer a 
drubbing. Oh, Mr. P——, get me the constable, 
for here’s a gentleman going to murder me! ”’ 

Mr. P , who is seen hastening from behind 
a pillar of the Rotunda, replies: ‘‘ Yes, sir, yes. 
Pray young gentleman don’t hurt him, for he 
never has any meaning in what he writes.’’ 

Hill took to his bed, raised an action against 
Mr. Brown for assault, and proclaimed from 
the housetops that there was a conspiracy to 
murder him. This brought forth a second 
print, showing Hill in bed and attended by 
doctors, one of whom, in reply to the patient’s 
plea that he had no money, responds, ‘‘ Sell 
your sword, it is only an encumbrance.’’ 

Another lively episode disturbed the peace 


328 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


of Ranelagh on the night of May 11th, 1764. 
Several years previously some daring spirits 
among the wealthier classes had started a 
movement for the abolition of vails, otherwise 
‘* tips,’’ to servants, and the leaders of that 
movement were subjected to all kinds of annoy- 
ance from the class concerned. On the night 
in question the resentment of coachmen, foot- 
men and other servants developed into a seri- 
ous riot at Ranelagh, special attention being 
paid to those members of the nobility and gen- 
try who would not suffer their employees to 
take vails from their guests. ‘‘ They began,”’ 
says a chronicle of the time, ‘‘ by hissing their 
masters, they then broke all the lamps and out- 
side windows with stones; and afterwards put- 
ting out their flambeaux, pelted the company, 
in a most audacious manner, with brickbats, 
etc., whereby several were greatly hurt.’’ This 
attack was not received in the submissive spirit 
of Dr. Hill; the assaulted gentry drew their 
swords to beat back the rioters and severely 
wounded not a few. They probably enjoyed 
the diversion from the ordinary pleasures of 
Ranelagh. 

How gladly the frequenters of the gardens 
welcomed the slightest departure from the nor- 
mal proceedings of the place may be inferred 


Ranelagh 329 


from the importance which was attached to an 
incident which took place soon after 1770. Pub- 
lic mourning was in order for some one, and 
of course the regular patrons of Ranelagh ex- 
pressed their obedience to the court edict by 
appropriate attire. One evening, however, it 
was observed that there were two gentlemen 
in the gardens dressed in coloured clothes. It 
was obvious they were strangers to the place 
and unknown to each other. Their inappro- 
priate costume quickly attracted attention, and 
became the subject of general conversation, 
and, such a dearth was there of excitement, 
Lord Spencer Hamilton aroused feverish in- 
terest by laying a wager that before the night 
was out he would have the two strangers walk- 
ing arm in arm. The wager taken, he set to 
work in an adroit manner. Watching one of 
the strangers until he sat down, he immedi- 
ately placed himself by his side, and entered 
into conversation. A few minutes later Lord 
Spencer left his new friend in search of the 
other stranger, to whom he addressed some 
civil remark, and accompanied on a stroll round 
the gardens. Coming back eventually to the 
seat on which the first stranger was still rest- 
ing, Lord Spencer had no difficulty in persuad- 
ing his second new acquaintance to take a seat 


330 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


also. The conversation of the trio naturally 
became general, and a little later Lord Spencer 
suggested a promenade. On starting off he 
offered his arm to the first stranger, who paid 
the same compliment to stranger number two, 
with the result that Lord Spencer was able to 
direct the little procession to the vicinity of 
his friends, and so demonstrate that the wager 
was won. So simple an incident furnished 
Ranelagh with great amusement for an entire 
evening! | 

What the management provided by way of 
entertainment has been partially hinted at. 
Music appears to have been the chief stand-by 
from the first and was provided at breakfast 
time as well as at night. Many notable players 
and singers appeared in the Rotunda, including 
Mozart, who, as a boy of eight, played some 
of his own compositions on the harpsichord 
and organ, and Dibdin, the famous ballad 
singer. Fireworks were a later attraction, as 
also was the exhibition named Mount Etna, 
which called for a special building. Occasional 
variety was provided by regattas and shooting- 
matches, and balloon-ascents, and displays of 
diving. 

No doubt Ranelagh was at its best and gay- 
est when the scene of a masquerade. But un- 


Ranelagh 331 


fortunately those entertainments had their 
sinister side. Fielding impeaches them in 
‘¢ Amelia ’’ by their results, and the novelist 
was not alone in his criticism. The Connois- 
seur devoted a paper to the evils of those gath- 
erings, deriding them as foreign innovations, 
and recalling the example of the lady who had 
proposed to attend one in the undress garb of 
Iphigenia. ‘‘ What the above-mentioned lady 
had the hardiness to attempt alone,’’ the writer 
continued, ‘‘ will (I am assured) be set on foot 
by our persons of fashion, as soon as the hot 
days come in. Ranelagh is the place pitched 
upon for their meeting; where it is proposed 
to have a masquerade al fresco, and the whole 
company are to display all their charms in 
puris naturalibus. The pantheon of the heathen 
gods, Ovid’s Metamorphoses, and Titian’s 
prints, will supply them with sufficient variety 
of undressed characters.’’ A cynic might har- 
bour the suspicion that this critic was in the 
pay of Vauxhall. 

Even he, however, did not utter the worst 
about the amusements of Ranelagh. The truth 
was known to all but confessed by few. The 
outspoken Matt. Bramble in the indictment 
cited above gave emphatic utterance to the fact 
that the chief recreation at Ranelagh was worse 


332 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


than none at all. ‘‘ One may be easily tired ”’ 
of the place, was the verdict of a noble lord in 
1746; ‘‘it is always the same.’’ And to the 
same effect is the conclusion reached by a 
French visitor, who was delighted for five min- 
utes, and then oppressed with satiety and in- 
‘difference. When the visitor had made the 
promenade of the Rotunda, there was prac- 
tically nothing for him to do save make it 
again. Hence the mill-round of monotony so 
aptly expressed by the Suffolk village poet, 
Robert Bloomfield, who was lured to Ranelagh 
one night shortly before its doors were finally 
closed. 


“To Ranelagh, once in my life, 
By good-natur’d force I was driven; 
‘The nations had ceas’d their long strife, 
And Peace beam’d her radiance from Heaven. 
What wonders were there to be found, 
That a clown might enjoy or disdain ? 
First, we trac’d the gay ring all around; 
Aye — and then we went round it again. 


“ A thousand feet rustled on mats, 
A carpet that once had been green, 
Men bow’d with their outlandish hats, 
With corners so fearfully keen! 
Fair maids, who, at home in their haste, 
Had left all their clothes but a train, 


Ranelagh 333 


Swept the floor clean, as slowly they pac’d, 
Then — walked round and swept it again. 


“The music was truly enchanting, 
Right glad was I when I came near it; 
But in fashion I found I was wanting — 
*T was the fashion to walk, and not hear it. 
A fine youth, as beauty beset him, 
Look’d smilingly round on the train, 
‘The King’s nephew,’ they cried, as they met him. 
‘Then — we went round and met him again. 


“ Huge paintings of heroes and peace 

Seem’d to smile at the sound of the fiddle, 

Proud to fill up each tall shining space, 
Round the lantern that stood in the middle. 

And George’s head too; Heaven screen him; 
May he finish in peace his long reign: 

And what did we when we had seen him? 

- Why — went round and saw him again.” 


That poem ought to have killed Ranelagh 
had the resort not been near its demise at the 
time it was written. “But there was to be one 
final flare-up ere the end came. On a June 
night in 1803 the Rotunda was the scene of its 
last ball. The occasion was the Installation of 
the Knights of the Bath, and produced, on the 
authority of the Annual Register, ‘‘ one of the 
most splendid entertainments ever given in this 
country.’’ The cost was estimated at seven 


334 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


thousand pounds, which may well have been 
the case when the guests ate cherries at a 
guinea a pound and peas at fourteen shillings 
a quart. That féte was practically the last of 
Ranelagh; about a month later the music 
ceased and the lamps were extinguished for 
ever. And the ‘‘ struggles for happiness ’’ of 
sixty years were ended. 


2 


CHAPTER III 
OTHER FAVOURITE RESORTS 


Prior to the eighteenth century the Londoner 
was ill provided with outdoor pleasure resorts. 
It is true he had the Paris Garden at Bank- 
side, which Donald Lupton declared might be 
better termed ‘‘ a foul den than a fair garden. 
It’s a pity,’’? he added, ‘‘ so good a piece of 
ground is no better employed;’’ but, apart 
from two or three places of that character, his 
al fresco amusements were exceedingly limited. 
It should not be forgotten, however, that the 
ale-houses of those days frequently had a plot 
of land attached to them, wherein a game of 
bowls might be enjoyed. 

But the object-lesson of Vauxhall changed 
all that. From the date when that resort 
passed into the energetic management of Jona- 
than Tyers, smaller pleasure gardens sprang 
into existence all over London. By the middle 
of the eighteenth century they had grown so 
numerous that it would be a serious under- 
taking to attempt an exhaustive catalogue. 

335 | 


336 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


As, however, they had so many features in 
common, and passed through such kindred 
stages of development, the purpose of this sur- 
vey will be sufficiently served by a brief his- 
tory of four or five typical examples. 

How general was the impression that Vaux- 
hall had served as a model in most instances 
may be seen from the remark of a historian of 
1761 to the effect that the Marylebone Garden 
was to be ‘‘ considered as a kind of humble 
imitation of Vauxhall.’? Had Pepys’ Diary 
been in print at that date, and known to the 
proprietor, he would have been justified in re- 
senting the comparison. For, as a matter of 
fact, the diarist, under the date of May 7th, 
1668, had actually set down this record: ‘* Then 
we abroad to Marrowbone, and there walked in 
the garden, the first time I ever was there, and 
a pretty place it is.’’ At a first glance this 
entry might be regarded as disposing of the 
charge of imitation on the part of Marylebone 
Gardens. Such, however, is not strictly the 
case. It is true there were gardens here at the 
middle of the seventeenth century, but they 
were part of the grounds of the old manor- 
house, and practically answered to those tavern 
bowling-alleys to which reference has been 
made, The principal of these was attached to 


Other Favourite Resorts 337 


the tavern known as the Rose, which was a 
favourite haunt of the Duke of Buckingham, 
and the scene of his end-of-the-season dinner 
at which he always gave the toast: ‘‘ May as 
many of us as remain unhanged next spring 
meet here again.”’ 

What needs to be specially noted in connec- 
tion with the history of this resort is, that it 
was not until 1737 — five years after the open- 
ing of Vauxhall under Tyers — that the owner 
of Marylebone Gardens, Daniel Gough, suf- 
ficiently put the place in order to warrant a 
charge for admission. In the following year 
the place was formally advertised as a resort 
for evening amusement, that announcement 
marking a definite competition with Vauxhall. 
The buildings at this time comprised a spacious 
garden-orchestra fitted with an organ, and what 
was called the Great Room, an apartment spe- 
cially adapted for balls and suppers. 

Many singers, some famous and other notori- 
ous, entertained the patrons of Marylebone 
Gardens. From 1747 to 1752 the principal fe- 
male vocalist was Mary Ann Falkner, who, 
after a respectable marriage, became the sub- 
ject of an arrangement on the part of her idle 
husband whereby she passed under the protec- 
tion of the Earl of Halifax. She bore two chil- 


338 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


dren to that peer, and so maintained her power 
over him that for her sake he broke off an 
engagement with a wealthy lady. Another 
songstress, fair and frail, was the celebrated 
Nan Catley, the daughter of a coachman, whose 
beauty of face and voice and freedom of man- 
ners quickly made her notorious. She had 
already been the subject of an exciting law 
suit when she appeared at Marylebone at the 
age of eighteen. Miss Catley had been engaged 
by Thomas Lowe, the favourite tenor, who in 
1763 became the lessee of: the gardens, and: 
opened his season with a ‘‘ Musical Address to 
the Town,’’ sung by himself, Miss Catley and 
Miss Smith. The address apologized for the 
lack of some of the attractions of Vauxhall and 
Ranelagh, but added — 


“Yet nature some blessings has scatter’d around; 
And means to improve may hereafter be found.” 


Presuming that Lowe kept his promise, that 
did not prevent failure overtaking him as a 
caterer of public amusement. He lacked enter- 
prise as a manager, and a wet summer in 1767 
resulted in financial catastrophe. 

More serious musical efforts than ballad con- 
certs were attempted at Marylebone from time 


Other Favourite Resorts 339 


to time. That this had been the case even be- 
fore Dr. Samuel Arnold became proprietor of 
the gardens is illustrated by an anecdote of 
Dr. Fountayne and Handel, who often fre- 
quented the place. Being there together on one 
occasion the great composer asked his friend’s 
opinion of a new composition being played by 
the band. After listening a few minutes, Dr. 
Fountayne proposed that they resume their 
walk, for, said he, ‘‘ it’s not worth listening 
to — it’s very poor stuff.’’ ‘‘ You are right, 
Mr. Fountayne,’’ Handel replied, ‘‘ it 1s very 
poor stuff. I thought so myself when I had 
fmished it.’’ 

Fireworks were not added to the attractions 
until 1751, and even then the displays were only 
occasional features for some years. In 1772, 
however, that part of the entertainment was 
deputed to the well-known Torré, whose unique 
fireworks were the talk of London. He had 
one set piece called the Forge of Vulcan, which 
was so popular that its repetition was fre- 
quently demanded. According to George Stee- 
vens, it was the fame of Torré’s fireworks 
which impelled Dr. Johnson to visit the gardens 
one night in his company. ‘‘ The evening had 
proved showery,’’ wrote Steevens in his ac- 
count of the outing, ‘‘ and soon after the few 


340 rans and Taverns of Old London 


people present were assembled, public notice 
was given that the conductors of the wheels, 
suns, stars, etc., were so thoroughly water- 
soaked that it was impossible any part of the 
exhibition should be made. ‘ That’s a mere ex- 
cuse,’ says the Doctor, ‘ to save their crackers 
for a more profitable company. Let us both 
hold up our sticks, and threaten to break these 
coloured lamps that surround the orchestra, 
and we shall soon have our wishes gratified. 
The core of the fireworks cannot be injured; 
let the different pieces be touched in their re- 
spective centres, and they will do their offices 
as well as ever.’ Some young men who over- 
heard him immediately began the violence he 
had recommended, and an attempt was speedily 
made to fire some of the wheels which appeared 
to have received the smallest damage; but to 
little purpose were they lighted, for most of 
them completely failed.’’ 

Apparently that was not the only occasion 
when the management failed to keep faith with 
the public. In July, 1774, the newspaper se- 
verely criticised the proprietors for having 
charged an admission fee of five shillings to a 
Féte Champétre, which consisted of nothing 
more than a few tawdry festoons and extra 


MARYLEBONE GARDENS, 


A te 


Other Favourite: Resorts 341 


lamps, and another mentor of an earlier date 
had dismissed the whole place as ‘‘ nothing 
more than two or three gravel roads, and a 
few shapeless trees.’’ Altogether, popular as 
Torré’s fireworks were when they went off, it 
is not improbable that they had a considerable 
share in terminating the existence of the gar- 
dens. Houses were increasing fast in the 
neighbourhood, and the dwellers in those 
houses objected to being bombarded with rock- 
ets. At any rate, six years after the renowned 
Torré began his pyrotechnics, the site of the 
gardens fell into the hands of builders and the 
seeker of out-door amusement had to find his 
enjoyment elsewhere. 

Perhaps some of the frequenters of Mary- 
lebone Gardens transferred their patronage to 
the White Conduit House, situated two or three 
miles to the north-east. Here again is an ex- 
ample of a pleasure resort developing partially 
from an ale-house, for the legend is that the 
White Conduit House was at first a small tav- 
ern, the finishing touches to which were given, 
to the accompaniment of much hard drinking, 
on the day Charles I lost his head. 

Unusual as is the name of this resort, it is 
largely self-explanatory. There was a water- 


342 Inns and Taverns of Old London — 


conduit in an adjacent field, which was faced 
with white stone, and hence the name. The 
house itself, however, had its own grounds, 
which were attractively laid out when the whole 
property was reconstructed somewhere about 
1745. At that time a Long Room was erected, 
and the gardens provided with a fish-pond and 
numerous arbours. The popularity of the place 
seems to date from the proprietorship of Rob- 
ert Bartholomew, who acquired the property in 
1754, and to have continued unabated fill 
nearly the end of the century. Mr. Bartholo- 
mew did not overlook any of his attractions 
in the announcement he made on taking pos- 
session. ‘‘ For the better accommodation of 
ladies and gentlemen,’’ so the advertisement 
ran, ‘‘ I have completed a long walk, with a 
handsome circular fish-pond, a number of shady 
pleasant arbours, inclosed with a fence seven 
feet high to prevent being the least incom- 
moded from people in the fields; hot loaves 
and butter every day, milk directly from the 
cows, coffee, tea, and all manner of liquors in 
the greatest perfection; also a handsome long 
room, from whence is the most copious pros- 
pects and airy situation of any now in vogue. 
I humbly hope the continuance of my friends’ 
favours, as I make it my chief study to have the 


“HSQOH LINGNOO WLIHAL 


enryetie soca 
Snr on 


faceernteiains 


4 


Other Favourite Resorts 343 


best accommodations, and am, ladies and gen- 
tlemen, your obliged humble servant, Robert 
Bartholomew. Note. My cows eat no grains, 
neither any adulteration in milk or cream.’’ It 
is obvious that Mr. Bartholomew’s enthusiasm 
made him reckless of grammar, and that some 
of his ladies and gentlemen might have ob- 
jected to have their butter hot; but it is equally 
plain that here was a man who knew his busi- 
ness. 

And he did not fail of adequate reward. Six 
years after the publication of that seductive 
announcement the resort had become so popu- 
lar, especially as the objective of a Sunday out- 
ing, that its praises were sung in poetry im so 
~ reputable a periodical as the Gentleman’s Mag- 
azine. The verses describe the joy of the Lon- 
don ’prentice on the return of Sunday, and give 
a spirited picture of the scene at the gardens. 


“His meal meridian o’er, 
With switch in hand, he to White Conduit House 
Hies merry-hearted. Human beings here 
In couples multitudinous assemble, 
Forming the drollest groups that ever trod 
Fair Islingtonian plains. Male after male, 
Dog after dog succeeding — husbands, wives, 
Fathers and mothers, brothers, sisters, friends, 
And pretty little boys and girls. Around, 
Across, along, the gardens’ shrubby maze, 


344 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


They walk, they sit, they stand. What crowds press on, 
Eager to mount the stairs, eager to catch 

First vacant bench or chair in long room plac’d. 
Here prig with prig holds conference polite, 

And indiscriminate the gaudy beau 

And sloven mix. Here he, who all the week 

Took bearded mortals by the nose, or sat 

Weaving dead hairs, and whistling wretched strain, 
And eke the sturdy youth, whose trade it is 

Stout oxen to contund, with gold-bound hat 

And silken stocking strut. The red arm’d belle 
Here shows her tasty gown, proud to be thought 

The butterfly of fashion: and forsooth 

Her haughty mistress deigns for once to tread 

‘The same unhallow’d floor. —’Tis hurry all 

And rattling cups and saucers. Waiter here, 

And waiter there, and waiter here and there, 

At once is call’d — Joe — Joe — Joe — Joe — Joe — 
Joe on the right — and Joe upon the left, 

For ev’ry vocal pipe re-echoes Joe. 

Alas, poor Joe! Like Francis in the play 

He stands confounded, anxious how to please 

The many-headed throng. But shou’d I paint 

The language, humours, custom of the place, 
Together with all curts’ys, lowly bows, 

And compliments extern, *twould swell my page 
Beyond its limits due. Suffice it then 

For my prophetic muse to say, ‘ So long 

As fashion rides upon the wings of time, 

While tea and cream, and butter’d rolls can please, 
While rival beaux and jealous belles exist, 

So long, White Conduit House, shall be thy fame.’ ” 


Other Favourite Resorts 345 


More distinguished members of the commu- 
nity than the London ’prentice and the ‘‘ red 
arm’d belle ’’ frequented the gardens now and 
then. About 1762 the place was a favourite 
resort with Oliver Goldsmith, and was the 
scene of a typical episode in his life. While 
strolling in the gardens one afternoon he met 
the three daughters of a tradesman to whom he 
was under obligation, and of course must needs 
invite them to take tea as his guests. But when 
the time of reckoning came he found, character- 
istically enough, that his pocket was empty. 
Happily some friends were near to rescue him 
from his difficulty, but the crucial moment of 
the incident was to be perpetuated in all its 
ludicrous humour by an artist of a later gen- 
eration, who, in the painting entitled ‘‘ An 
Awkward Position,’’ depicted the poet at the 
moment when he discovered his pockets were 
empty. | 

Later in its history the White Conduit House 
became known as the ‘‘ Minor Vauxhall ’’ and 
was the scene of balloon ascents, fireworks, and 
evening concerts. Gradually, however, it fell 
on evil days, and in 1849 it passed permanently 
into the history of old London. 

No one traversing that sordid thoroughfare 
known as King’s Cross Road in the London 


346 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


of to-day could imagine that that highway was 
the locality in the mid-eighteenth century of 
one of the most popular resorts of the English 
capital. Such, however, was the case. At that 
time the highway was known as Bagnigge 
Wells Road, and at its northern extremity was 
situated the resort known as Bagnigge Wells. 
The early history of the place is somewhat 
obscure. Tradition has it that the original 
house was a summer residence of Nell Gwynne, 
where she frequently entertained her royal 
lover. It has also been stated that there was 
a place of public entertainment here as early 
as 1738. . 

Whatever truth there may be in both those 
assertions, there is no gainsaying the fact that 
the prosperity of Bagnigge Wells dates from 
a discovery made by a Mr. Hughes, the tenant 
of the house, in 1757. This Mr. Hughes took 
a pride in his garden, and was consequently 
much distressed to find that the more he used 
his watering-can the less his flowers thrived. 
At this juncture a Dr. Bevis appeared on the 
scene, to whom the curious circumstance was 
mentioned. On tasting the water from the gar- 
den well he was surprised to find its ‘‘ flavour 
so near that of the best chalybeates,’’ and at 
-once informed Mr. Hughes that it might be 


Other Favourite Resorts 347 


made of great benefit both to the public and 
himself. The next day a huge bottle of the 
water was delivered at Dr. Bevis’s house, and 
analysis confirmed his first impression. Before 
he could proceed further in the matter, Dr. 
Bevis fell ill, and by the time he had recovered 
notable doings had been accomplished at Bag- 
nigge Wells. 

For Mr. Hughes was not wholly absorbed in 
the cultivation of flowers. Visions of wealth 
residing in that well evidently captured his 
imagination, and he at once set to work fitting 
up his gardens as a kind of spa, where the pub- 
lic could drink for his financial benefit. A sec- 
ond well was sunk and found to yield another 
variety of mineral water, and the two waters 
were connected with a double pump over which 
a circular edifice named the Temple was con- 
structed. Other attractions were added as 
their necessity became apparent. They in- 
cluded a spacious banqueting hall known as the 
Long Room, provided with an organ, and the 
laying out of the gardens in approved style. 
No doubt the curative qualities of the waters 
speedily became a secondary consideration 
with the patrons of the place, but that probably 
troubled Mr. Hughes not at all so long as those 
patrons came in sufficient numbers. 


348 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


That they did come in crowds is demon- 
strated by the literature which sprang up 
around the gardens, and by many other evi- 
dences. On its medicinal side the place was 
celebrated by one poet in these strains: 


“Ye gouty old souls and rheumatics crawl on, 

Here taste these blest springs, and your tortures are 
gone; ‘ 

Ye wretches asthmatick, who pant for your breath, 

Come drink your relief, and think not of death. 

Obey the glad summons, to Bagnigge repair, 

Drink deep of its waters, and forget all your care. 


“The distemper’d shall drink and forget all his pain, 
When his blood flows more briskly through every vein; 
The headache shall vanish, the heartache shall cease, 
And your lives be enjoyed in more pleasure and peace 
Obey then the summons, to Bagnigge repair, 

And drink an oblivion to pain and to care.” 


Twenty years later the muse of Bagnigge 
Wells was pitched in a different key. The char- 
acter of the frequenters had changed for the 
worse. Instead of ‘‘ gouty old souls,’’ and 
‘< rheumatics,’’ and ‘‘ asthmaticks,’’ the most 
noted Cyprians of the day had made the place 
their rendezvous. So the poet sings of 


“Thy arbours, Bagnigge, and the gay alcove, 
Where the frail nymphs in am’rous dalliance rove.” 


BAGNIGGE WELLS. 


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Other Favourite Resorts 349 


Concurrently with this change the gentlemen 
of the road began to favour the gardens with 
their presence, chief among their number being 
that notorious highwayman John Rann, other- 
wise known as Sixteen-String Jack from his 
habit of wearing a bunch of eight ribbons on 
each knee. But he came to Bagnigge once too 
often, for, after insisting on paying unwelcome 
attentions to a lady in the ball-room, he was 
seized by some members of the company and 
thrown out of a window into the Fleet river 
below. 

Notwithstanding this deterioration, the pro- 
prietor of the place in 1779 in announcing the 
opening for the season still dwelt upon the in- 
valuable properties of the waters, not forget- 
ting to add that ‘‘ ladies and gentlemen may 
depend on having the best of Tea, Coffee, etc., 
with hot loaves, every morning and evening.’’ 
But nothing could ward off the pending catas- 
trophe. ‘‘ Bagnigge Wells,’’ wrote the histo- 
rian of its decline, ‘‘ sported its fountains, with 
little wooden cupids spouting water day and 
night, but it fearfully realized the facilis de- 
scensus Averni. The gardens were curtailed 
of their fair proportions, and this once famous 
resort sank down to a threepenny concert- 
room,’’ It struggled on in that lowly guise 


350 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


for a number of years, but the end came in 
1841, and now even the name of the road in 
which it existed is wiped off the map of London. 

More fortunate in that respect was the Ber- 
mondsey Spa, the name of which is perpetuated 
to this day in the Spa Road of that malodorous 
neighbourhood. ‘This resort, which, like Bag- 
nigge Wells, owed its creation to the discovery 
of a chalybeate spring, is bound up with the 
life-story of a somewhat remarkable man, 
Thomas Keyse by name. Born in 1722, he 
became a self-taught artist of such skill that 
several of his still-life paintings were deemed 
worthy of exhibition at the Royal Academy. 
He was also awarded a premium of thirty 
guineas by the Society of Arts for a new 
‘method of fixing crayon drawings. 

But thirty guineas and the glory of bemg 
an exhibitor at the Royal Academy were hardly 
adequate for subsistence, and hence, some- 
where about 1765, Keyse turned to the less dis- 
tinguished but more profitable occupation of 
tavern-keeper. Having purchased the Water- 
man’s Arms at Bermondsey, with some adjoin- 
ing waste land, he transformed the place into 
a tea-garden. Shortly afterwards a chalybeate 
spring was discovered in the grounds, an event 
which obliterated the name of the Waterman’s 


Other Favourite Resorts 351 


Arms in favour of the Bermondsey Spa Gar- 
dens. The ground was duly laid out in pleas- 
ant walks, with the usual accompaniments of 
leafy arbours and other quiet nooks for tea- 
parties. The next step was to secure a music 
license, fit up an orchestra, adorn the trees with 
coloured lamps, organize occasional displays of 
fireworks, and challenge comparison with Vaux- 
hall if only on a small scale. One of the attrac- 
tions reserved for special occasion was a scenic 
representation of the Siege of Gibraltar, in 
which fireworks, transparencies, and bomb 
shells played a prominent part. Keyse himself 
was responsible for the device by which the 
idea was carried out, and the performance was 
so realistic that it was declared to give ‘‘ a very 
strong idea of the real Siege.”’ 

Hearty as were the plaudits bestowed upon 
the Siege of Gibraltar, there is not much risk 
in hazarding the opinion that Keyse took more 
pride in the picture-gallery of his own paint- 
ings than in any other feature of his establish- 
ment. The canvases included representations 
of all kinds of still life, and, thanks to the 
recording pen of J. T. Smith, that enthusiastic 
lover of old London, it is still possible to make 
the round of the gallery in the company of the 
artist-proprietor. Mr, Smith visited the gar- 


352 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


dens when public patronage had declined to a 
low ebb, so that he had the gallery all to him- 
self, as he imagined. ‘‘ Stepping back to study 
the picture of the ‘ Greenstall,’ ‘I ask your 
pardon,’ said I, for I had trodden on some 
one’s toes. ‘ Sir, it is granted,’ replied a little, 
thick-set man with a round face, arch looks, and 
close-curled wig, surmounted by a small three- 
cornered hat put very knowingly on one side, 
not unlike Hogarth’s head in his print of the 
‘Gates of Calais.’ ‘ You are an artist, I pre- 
sume; I noticed you from the end of the gallery, 
when you first stepped back to look at my best 
picture. I painted all the objects in this room 
from nature and still life.’ ‘ Your Green- 
grocer’s Shop,’ said I, ‘ is inimitable; the drops 
of water on that savoy appear as if they had 
just fallen from the element. Van Huysun 
could not have pencilled them with greater deli- 
cacy.’ ‘ What do you think,’ said he, ‘ of my 
Butcher’s Shop?’ ‘ Your pluck is bleeding 
fresh, and your sweetbread is in a clean plate.’ 
‘ How do you like my bull’s eye?’ ‘ Why, it 
would be a most excellent one for Adams or 
Dolland to lecture upon. Your knuckle of veal 
is the finest I ever saw.’ ‘It’s young meat,’ 
replied he; ‘ any one who is a judge of meat 
can tell that from the blueness of its bone.’ 


Other Favourite Resorts 353 


‘ What a beautiful white you have used on the 
fat of that Southdown leg! or is it Bagshot? ’ 
‘ Yes,’ said he, ‘ my solitary visitor, it is Bag- 
shot: and as for my white, that is the best 
Nottingham, which you or any artist can pro- 
eure at Stone and Puncheon’s, Bishopsgate 
Street Within.’ ‘ Sir Joshua Reynolds,’ con- 
tinued Mr. Keyse, ‘ paid me two visits. On 
the second, he asked me what white I had used; 
and when I told him, he observed, ‘‘ It’s very 
extraordinary, sir, that it keeps so bright. I 
use the same.’’ ‘‘ Not at all, sir,’’ I rejoined: 
‘‘ the doors of this gallery are open day and 
night; and the admission of fresh air, together 
with the great expansion of light from the 
sashes above, will never suffer the white to turn 
yellow.’’’ ’’ 

And then the enthusiastic artist and his soli- 
tary patron walked out to the orchestra in the 
gardens, sole auditors of the singer who had 
to sing by contract whether few or many were 
present. It is a pathetic record, portending 
the final closing of Bermondsey Spa but a few 
years later. 

On the return journey to Southwark, the 
Southwark of Chaucer’s Tabard, the pilgrim 
among these memories of the past may tread 
the ground where Finch’s Grotto Gardens once 


354 Inns and Taverns of Old London 


re-echoed to laughter and song. ‘They were 
established in 1760 by one Thomas Finch, who 
was of the fraternity of Thomas Keyse, even 
though he was but a Herald Painter. Falling 
heir to a house and pleasant garden, encircled 
with lofty trees and umbrageous with ever- 
greens and shrubs, he decided to convert the 
place into a resort for public amusement. The 
adornments consisted of a grotto, built over 
a mineral spring, and a fountain, and an or- 
chestra, and an Octagon Room for balls and 
refuge from wet evenings. The vocalists in- 
cluded Sophia Snow, afterwards as Mrs. Bad- 
deley to become notorious for her beauty and 
frailty, and Thomas Lowe, the one-time favour- 
ite of Vauxhall, whose financial failure at 
Marylebone made him thankful to accept an 
engagement at this more lowly resort. But 
Finch’s Grotto Gardens were not destined to 
a long life. Perhaps they were too near Vaux- 
hall to succeed; perhaps the policy of engaging 
had-been favourites was as little likely to 
bring prosperity in the eighteenth as in the 
twentieth century. Whatever the cause, the 
fact is on record that after a career of less than 
twenty years the gardens ceased to exist. 

As has been seen in an earlier chapter, the 
great prototype of the pleasure gardens of old 


‘“TUVMHLOAOS ‘OLLOUD §,HONIT 


SaGNNO0Ud AITLLIMS Coe 


MAE RIBA 


Other Favourite Resorts 355 


London, Vauxhall, outlived all its competitors 
for half a century. But upon even that favour- 
ite resort the changing manners of a new time. 
had fatal effect. As knowledge grew and taste 
became more diversified, it became less and less 
easy to cater for the amusement of the many. 
To the student of old-time manners, however, 
the history of the out-door resorts of old Lon- 
don is full of instruction and suggestion, if only 
for the light it throws on those ‘‘ struggles for 
happiness ’’ which help to distinguish man 
from the brute creation. 


THE END. 


Lyal EY 
xo 


INDEX 


** A Cup of Coffee, or Coffee in 
its Colours,” 166. 

Adam and Eve Tavern, 153, 
154. 

Adam, the brothers, 108. 

Addison, Joseph, 74, 178, 181, 
183, 187, 215, 216, 217, 219, 
220, 227, 233, 246, 295, 304. 

Adelphi hotel, 108, 109, 110. 

Aix-la-Chapelle, Peace of, 318. 

Alice’s coffee-house, 236, 237, 
238. 

Alfred Club, 287. 

Almack, William, 275. 

Almack’s, 275, 276. 

“* Amelia,” 297, 298, 331. 

Anderson, Mrs., 223. 

Anderton’s Hotel, 78. 

Angel Inn, Fleet Street, 101. 

Angel Inn, Islington, 157, 158. 

Anne, Queen, 113, 143, 173, 
228, 282. 

Annual register, 178, 218, 308, 
333. 

Anstey’s ‘‘ Pleaders’ Guide,” 
121. 

Apollo room at the Devil tav- 
ern, 94, 95, 98, 99, 100. 

Archer, Mrs. Mary, 127. 

Argyll, Duke of, 255. 

Aristophanes, 133. 

Armstrong, Dr. John, 207. 

Arnold, Dr. Samuel, 339. 

Arthur’s Club, 287, 288. 

Arthur, Mr., 268, 269. 

Atheneum Club, 267. 


Bacon, Anthony, 48. 
Baddeley, Mrs., 354. 


Bagnigge Wells, 346-350. 

Bailley, Christian, 6. 

Bailley, Henry, 6, 10. 

Barrington, Hon. Daines, 262. 

Barrington, Sir Jonas, 222. 

Bartholomew Fair, 156, 157. 

Bartholomew, Robert, 342, 
343. 

Bate, Henry, 108, 109, 230, 
231. 

Bath, Installation of 
Knights of, 333. 

Batson’s coffee-house, 173, 174, 
175, 176, 185. 

Bear inn, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 
20, 21. 

pea Lady Sydney, 137, 
138. 

Beauclerk, Topham, 137, 207, 
256, 257, 259, 276, 322. 

Beaufort, Duchess of, 247. 

Beaumont, Francis, 55. 

Becket, Thomas a, 4, 5, 14. 

Bedford coffee-house, 205, 206. 

Bedford, Duke of, 219, 224. 

Bedford Head tavern, 117, 
118, 119. 

Beeswing Club, The, 224. 

Beef Steak Club, 282, 283, 
284. 

Bell tavern, 141, 142, 143. 

Belle Sauvage inn, 73, 74, 75, 
76, 77. 

Bermondsey Spa Gardens, 350- 
353 


Bevis, Dr., 346, 347. 

Bickerstaff, Sir Isaac, 181. 

Bishopsgate Street Within, 
inns of, 47. 


the 


357 


358 


Index 


TN 


Bishopsgate Street Without, 
inns of, 50, 51. 

Blackmore, Sir Richard, 178, 
174. 

Bloomfield, Robert, 332. 

Blount, Sir Henry, 164. 

Blue Boar inn, 70, 71, 72. 

Blue Posts tavern, 148, 149. 

Blue-Stocking Club, 250,.251, 
253, 255, 

Boar’s Head inn, Eastcheap, 
30, 31, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38. 

Boar’s Head inn, Southwark, 
21; ‘22. 

Boehm, Mr., 197. 

Boileau’s Lutrin, 212. 

Bolinbroke, Viscount, 202. 

Boodle’s Club, 284, 285. 

Bordeaux, merchants of, 39. 

Boswell, James, 30, 33, 63, 81, 
88, 89, 90, 91, 103, 104, 105, 
117, 180, 255, 256, 259, 260, 
262, 263, 323. 

Bowen, William, 52, 53. 

Bowman, Mrs., 164. 

Bramble, Matt., 324, 331. 

British coffee-house, 223, 224. 

British Institution, 182, 133. 

Broghill, Lord, 70. 

Bronté, Anne, 191, 192. 

Bronté, Charlotte, 191, 192. 

Brooks’s Club, 271, 274, 276, 
277, 278, 280, 286. 

Brown, Tom, 306. 

Buchan, Dr., 264. 

Buckingham, Duke of, 337. 

Bull and Gate inn, 69, 70. 

Bull Head tavern, 57. 

Bull inn, 48. 

Burke, Edmund, 202, 252, 256, 
258, 260, 275. - 

Burney, Dr., 261. 

Burney, Fanny, 252, 253. 

Burton’s, Thomas, “ Parlia- 
mentary Diary,” 141. 

Button’s coffee-house, 209, 216, 
217, 218, 219, 220, 221. 

Buttony, Daniel, 215, 217, 220. 

Byron, Lord, 145, 146, 147. 


Byron, Lord, the poet, 146, 
287. 


Cade, Jack, 24, 25, 26, 27, 29. 

“‘Calamities and Quarrels of 
Authors,’’ 325. 

Calf’s Head Club, 147. 

Campbell, Lord, 150, 224. 

Campbell, Thomas, 121. 

Cannon coffee-house, 222. 

Canterbury, 5, 10. 

Canterbury Tales, 7, 8, 9, 13. 

Cambridge carriers, 48, 49. 

Carlisle, Lord, 298. 

Carlyle, Thomas, 141. 

Cat, Christopher, 244, 245, 
249 


Catley, Nan, 338. 


_|Chamier, Anthony, 256, 257. 


Chapter coffee-house, 187, 189, 
190, 191, 192. 

Charnock, Robert, 149. 

Charing Cross, coffee-houses of, 
aoe 

Charing Cross, inns of, 110. 

Charles I, 16, 44, 57, 70, 72, 73, 
147, 341. 

Charles IT, 20, 21, 125, 142, 
165. 

Charles V, 58. 

Chatelaine’s, 124, 125, 126. 

Chatterton, Thomas, 180, 190. 

Chaucer, Geoffrey, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 
9, 11, 18, 189, 353. 

Chaworth, William, 145, 146, 
147. 

Cheapside Cross, 57. 

Cheshire Cheese, 79, 80, 81, 82, 
83. 

Chesterfield, Lord, 318. 

Child’s coffee-house, 186, 187, 
192. 

Chinaman, Goldsmith’s, 
Vauxhall, 304, 305. 

Christ’s Hospital, 66, 67. - 

Churchill, Lady Mary, 247. 

Cibber, Colley, 128, 211, 219, 
220 


Cicero, 133. 


at 


Index 


309 


Cider Cellars, 120, 121, 122. 
“Citizen of the World,” 322. 
Claypole, Elizabeth, 235. 


Clubs of old London, 243. 

Club, The, 255, 256, 257, 259, 
260, 261, 262. 

Clutterback, James, 62. 

Cock tavern, Fleet Street, 83, 
84, 85, 86, 87, 88. 

Cock tavern, Leadenhall Street, 
46 


eye tavern, Suffolk Street, 

147, 

Cocoa-Tree Club, 228, 229, 
230, 231, 232, 233. 

Coffee, 164, 166. 

** Coffee House, The Character 
of,” 167, 168, 169. 

Coffee-houses in London, 163; 
first to be opened, 163, 164; 
subject of a play, 166; pam- 
phlets for and against, 167, 
168, 169, 170; petition 
against, 171; proclamation 
suppressing, 172; influenced 
by locality, 173. 

** Coffee, Women’s 
against,’ 171, 172. 

‘‘ Coffee House Vindicated,’’ 
169, 170. 

Coleridge, S. T., 65, 66, 67, 
150 


Petition 


Connoisseur, 
176, 187, 206, 301, 306, 331. 
Cony, Nathaniel, 149. 
“Country Mouse and the City 
Mouse,’’ 212, 213. 
Covent Garden, coffee-houses 
of, 205. 
Covent Garden, 
334,125: 
Coverley, Sir Roger de, 295. 
Cowley, Abraham, 93. 
Cowper, William, 197, 198. 


taverns of, 


Craven Head inn, 103. 

Crown and Anchor, 103, 104, 
105, 106, 107. 

Cromwell, Oliver, 70, 71, 72, 
13, 200, 

Cruikshank, George, 153. 

Cumberland, Duke of, 286. 

Cumberland, Richard, 254. 

Cuper’s Gardens, 136, 137, 

Curran, John Philpot, 222. 

Cuthbert, Captain, 151. 


Dagger tavern, 68, 69. 

“ Dark Walks ” of Vauxhall, 
299, 300, 306. 

Davidson, John, 82. 

Davies, Thomas, 104. 

“Decline and Fall of the Ro- 
man Empire,” 109, 110. 

Defoe, Daniel, 64. 

De Moivre, Abraham, 225. 

Devil tavern, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 
98, 99, 100, 101. 

Devonshire, Duke of, 286. 

Dibdin, Charles, 330. 

Dickens, Charles, 29, 152, 1565, 
156. 

Dick’s eoffee-house, 197, 198. 

Dolly’s chop-house, 64, 65. 

Don Saltero’s coffee-house, 
238, 239, 240. 

Dorset, Duke of, 273. 

Dorset, Earl of, 115. 

Douglas, Bishop, 223. 

Dover House Club, 286. 

Drinkwater, Thomas, 15. 

Drummond, William, 98. 

Drury Lane, inns of, 115, 116. 

Dryden, John, 64, 98, 210, 211, 
212, 213, 214, 215. 

Dudley, Lord, 287. 

D’Urfey, Thomas, 248, 249. 

Dutton, John, 124. 


Edward VI, 92. 

Edwards, Mrs., 164. 

Egan, Pierce, 153, 304. 

Elephant and Castle tavern, 
158. 


360 


Index 


Elephant tavern, 43. 
ae Queen, 12, 42, 43, 


En, and, John, 139, 140. 
6 tables, 274. 

Essex, Lord, 140. 

Essex Street Club, 262, 263. 

Kthrage, Sir George, 112, 113. 

Evans, Widow, 137. 

Evelyn, John, 60, 100, 147, 
164. 


Falcon tavern, 159. 

Falkner, Mary Ann, 337. 

Falstaff, Sir John, 22, 23, 30, 
32, 33, 34, 35, 38, 169. 

Farr, James, 92. 

Fastolfe, Sir John, 21, 22, 23. 

Fantom, Captain, 116. 

Feather’s tavern, 136, 137, 138. 

Fielding, Henry, 64, 69, 205, 
207, 297, 298, 299, 309. 

Finch’s Grotto Gardens, 353, 
354. 

Finch, Thomas, 354. 

Fireworks at Vauxhall, 300; 
at Ranelagh, 330; at Mary- 
lebone, 339; at Bermond- 
sey Spa Gardens, 351. 

FitzGerald, Edward, 87. 

‘* Fitzgerald, Fighting,” 
231, 280, 281, 282. 

Fleece tavern, 126, 127. 

nee Street, taverns of, 62, 77, 

8, 

Ford, Parson, 130, 131. 

Foote, Samuel, 90, 91, 132, 133, 
205. 

Fortune Theatre, 59. 

Fountain tavern, 246. 

Fountayne, Dr., 339. 

Fox, Charles James, 105, 106, 
256, 261, 272, 275, 276, 278, 
279. 

Franklin, Benjamin, 186, 193. 

ern James Anthony, 75, 


230, 


Fuller, Isaac, 45, 46. 
Fuller, Thomas, 22. 


Garraway’s coffee-house, 176, 


Garraway, Thomas, 177. 

Garrick, David, 62, 63, 180, 
205, 251, 256, 258, 259, 260, 
313) 326. 

Garth, Sir Samuel, 247, 248, 
249. 

Gaskell, Mrs., 191. 

Gay, John, 117. 

Gentleman’s Magazine, 343. 

George I, 245, 249. 

George IL 269. 

George III, 107, 196. 

George’s coffee-house, 203, 204. 
206. 

George inn, 23, 24. 

Gibbon, Edward, 108, 109, 110, 
228, 229, 256, 257, 276, 284, 
285, 286. 

Gibbons, Grinling, 76. 

Gibraltar, Siege of, 351. 

Gifford’s, ‘William, Life of Ben 
Jonson, 54. 

Gillray, Ji ames, 275. 

Golden Cross tavern, 110, 111. 

Golden Eagle tavern, 147. 

Goldsmith, Oliver, 31, 33, 34, 
38, 76, 78, 79, 81, 89, 190, 
203, 204, 225, 228, 234, 256, 
257, 260, 304, 322, 324, 345. 

Goose and Gridiron, 62, 63, 64. 

Gordon, George, 224. 

Gough, Daniel, 337. 

Grant, Andrew, 224. 

Gray, "Thomas, 321, 322. 

Grecian coffee-house, 200, 201, 
202, 203. 

Green, SOIR 

Green Ribbon ean, 93. 

Gregorie, Robert, 138. 

Gresham, Sir Thomas, 92. 

Grimes, Jack, 116. 

Guardian, The, 216, 218, 219. 

Guildhall Museum, 34, 38. 

Gwynne, Nell, 346. 


Hackman, James, 206, 207. 
Hal, Prince, 31, 32. 


Index 


361 


Hales, John, 17. 

Hales, Robert, 103. 

Halifax, Earl of, 247, 248, 
Bot. 

Hall, Jacob, 19. 

Halley, Professor, 203. 

Hamilton, Lord Spencer, 329, 
330. 

Hand and Shears tavern, 156, 
1o7; 

Handel, George Frederick, 339. 

Hanover Club, 245. 

Harley, Edward, Earl of Ox- 
ford, 194. 

Harper, Bishop, 101. 

Harrington, James, 235, 236. 

Harvard, John, 21. 

Haslam, Dr., 224. 

Hawkins, Sir John, 256. 

Henry II, 5. 

Henry III, 68. 

Henry IV, 31, 36. 

Henry V, 23. 

Henry VI, 25, 26. 

Henry VIII, 314, 315. 

Herrick, Robert, 57, 58. 

Hill, Aaron, 220, 221. 

Hill, Dr. John, 218, 325, 326, 
Sars 

Hobson, Thomas, 48, 49. 

Hogarth, William, 43, 44, 60, 
61, 93, 115, 154, 158, 296. 

Holborn, inns of, 68, 69, 72. 

Holland, Lord, 276. 

Horden, Hildebrand, 128. . 

Horn tavern, 78. 

Horseshoe tavern, 116. 

Horseshoe tavern, Covent Gar- 
den, 124. 

Howard, Lord, 76. 

Howard, Major-General, 141. 

Howard, Sir John, 15, 16. 

Howell, James, ‘‘ Familiar Let- 
ters ” of, 49, 50. 

Hughes, Mr., 346, 347. 

Hummums tavern, 128, 129, 
130. 

Humphries, Miss, 195. 

“‘ Humphry Clinker,’”’ 65, 


Hunt’s, Leigh, ‘‘ The Town,” 
111, 113, 129. 

Hyde, Abbot of, 4, 12. 

Hyde, Lady, 248. 


Inspector, The, 218, 326. | 
Irving, Washington, 36, 37, 38. 


Jacobites, 115, 116, 149, 179, 
229, 313. 

James I, 50, 111. 

James III, 180. 

Jay, Cyrus, 81. 

Jerusalem coffee-house, 179. 

Jessop’s, 117. 

Jonathan’s coffee-house, 177, 
178. 

John’s coffee-house, 179, 180. 

Johnson, Dr. Samuel, 30, 62, 
63, 79, 80, 81, 88, 89, 90, 91, 
103, 104, 105, 117, 130, 137, 
138, 174, 189, 207, 211, 252, 
255, 256, 258, 259, 260, 261, 
262, 263, 267, 309, 322, 323, 
339, 340. 

Jones, Sir William, 256, 260. 

Jones, William, 314, 315, 316. 

Jonson, Ben, 39, 40, 54, 55, 57, 
58, 68, 69, 88, 93, 94, 95, 96, 
98, 99, 100, 111, 140, 166. 


Keate, Roger, 138. 

Keats, John, 55, 56. 

Kenrick, William, 190. 

Kensington, South, Museum, 
51. 

Keyse, Thomas, 350, 351, 353, 
354 


Killigrew, Harry, 293. 

King’s coffee-house, 205, 207. 

King, Thomas, 207. 

King’s Head _ tavern, 
church Street, 42. 

King’s Head tavern, Fleet 
Street, 92, 93. 

King John’s Palace, 153. 

Kingston, Lord, 249. 

King Street, Westminster, tav- 
erns of, 139. 


Fen- 


362 


Index 


Kit-Cat Club, 243, 244, 245, Macauley, Lord, 115, 209. 
ec 


246, 249, 282. 
Kit-Cat portraits, 246. 
Knapp, Mrs., 83, 84. 


Lacy, James, 313. 

Laguerre, Louis, 116, 117. 

Lamb, Charles, 65, 66, 67. 

Lambe, John, 59. 

Lambert, George, 283. 

Langton, Bennet, 137, 256. 

Lee, Sidney, 23. 

Leg tavern, 141, 142. 

Leslie, Charles Robert, 193. 

Lill, William, 236, 237. 

Lincolnshire, Fens of, 178. 

Lion’s Head at Button’s cof- 
fee-house, 217, 218, 219. 

** Lives of the English Poets,” 
189, 190. 

Lloyd, Charles, 190. 

Lloyd’s coffee-house, 173, 180, 
181, 182, 183. 

Lloyd, Edward, 180, 181. 

Lloyd, Sir Philip, 199. 

Locket’s, 110, 111, 112, 113, 
126. | | 

Locket, Adam, 113. 

Locket, Mrs., 112, 113. 

Lockier, Francis, 211, 212. 

London Bridge, 3, 15, 21, 23, 
26; 38, tos 

London coffee-house, 193. 

London, Fire of, 34, 45, 51, 63, 
79, 83, 292. 

London, Plague of, 44, 45, 49, 
158 


London tavern, 42. 
Long’s tavern, 148. 
Lonsdale, Earl of, 151, 204. 
Loughborough, Lady, 273. 
Loughborough, Lord, 273. 
Louis XVI, 261. 

Lowe, Thomas, 338, 354. 
Lowell, J. R., 7. 

Lowther, Sir James, 204. 
Lunsford, Colonel, 139. 
Lupton, Donald, 335. 
Lyttelton, Lord, 271, | 


*“ Mac Flecknoe,” 211, 212. 

Macklin, Charles, 131, 132, 133, 
134, 135, 202. 

Mackreth, Robert, 269. 

Maiden Lane taverns, 119, 
120. 

Malone, Edmund, 257, 258. 

Man, Alexander, 222, 223. 

Man’s coffee-house, 222, 223. 

Manchester, Lady, 246. 

Marlborough, Duchess of, 228. 

Marvell, Andrew, 119. 

Marylebone Gardens, 336-341. 

Maxwell, Dr., 91. 

Medici, Mary de, 57. 

Melford, Lydia, 306, 307, 325. 

Mermaid tavern, Cheapside, 
53, 54; 55,56, 62, 94: 

Mermaid tavern, Cornhill, 53. 

“Mermaid Tavern, Lines on,” 
56. 

Miles’s coffee-house, 235. 

Mitre tavern, Cheapside, 57. 

Mitre tavern, Fenchurch Street, 
44, 45. 

Mitre tavern, Fleet Street, 88, 
89, 90, 91. 

Monmouth, Duke of, 125. 

Montagu, Captain, 179, 180. 

Montagu, Lady Mary Wort- 
ley, 249, 250. 

Montagu, Mrs., 250, 251, 252, 
253, 254. 

More, Hannah, 251. 

Morris, Captain, 106. 

Mounsey, Dr., 104. 

Mozart, W. A., 330. 


Nag’s Head tavern, Cheapside, 


57. 

Nag’s Head tavern, Drury 
Lane, 116. 

Nando’s coffee-house, 195, 196, 
197, 198. 

Nash, Beau, 228. 

Newport, Young, 293, 294. 

New Spring Gardens, 291. 

Newton, Sir Isaac, 203, 226, 


Index 


363 


Norfolk, Duke of, 105, 106, 
107. 

North, Dudley, 107. 

North, Lord, 278. 

Northumberland, Duke of, 104. 

Nottinghamshire Club, 144. 


Oates, Titus, 93, 198, 199. 
Observer, The, 254. 

“ Oceana,” 235. 

October Club, 143. 


Oldisworth, William, 193, 194. 


Orford, Lord, 204. 
Ormonde, Marquis of, 312. 


Oxford, Earl of, 193, 194, 268. 


Pall Mall taverns, 143. 

Pantheon, The, 285, 323. 

‘‘ Paradise Lost,’ 209. 

Paris Garden, 335. 

Paterson, James, 62 

Pellett, Dr., 131. 

Pembroke, Earl of, 148, 149. 

Pepys, Mrs., 83, 84. 

Pepys, Samuel, 19, 20, 40, 41, 
44, 45, 51, 52, 83, 84, 88, 100, 
125, 126, 127, 141, 142, 143, 
166, 167, 210, 291, 292, 293, 
294, 336. | 

Percy, Dr., 104, 105, 256. 

Petres, Lord, 272. 

Philips, Ambrose, 220. 

Phillips, Sir Richard, 265. 

“ Pickwick Papers,” 28, 29. 

Pierce, Mrs., 83. 

Pie-Powder Court, 156, 157. 

Pindar, Sir Paul, 49, 50, 51. 

Pindar, Sir Paul, tavern, 50, 
51. 

Pindar, Peter, 129, 130. 

Pitt, Colonel, 231. 

Pitt’s Head tavern, 151. 

Pitt, William, 231, 288. 

Poins, 32. 

Pontack’s, 59, 60, 61, 111, 126. 

Pope, Alexander, 64, 117, 205, 
219, 220, 271. 

Pope’s Head tavern, 51, 52, 53. 

Porson, Richard, 120, 121. 


Portland, Duke of, 193. 

Preston, Robert, 37. 

Price, Dr. Richard, 186. 

Priestly, Dr., 193. 

“‘ Prince Alfred,” 173, 174. 

Prior, Matthew, 114, 115, 212, 
227. 

Prior, Samuel, 114. 


Queen’s Arms tavern, 62, 63. 

Queensbury, Duchess of, 196. 

Quickly, Dame, 33, 35, 36, 37, 
38 


Quin, James, 52, 53, 205. 


Rainbow tavern, 91, 92, 172, 
198, 199. 

Raleigh, Sir Walter, 54. 

Ranelagh, 312-334; Rotunda 
at, 314-317; féte at, 318; 
amusements of, 324; riot at, 
327, 328; poem on, 332, 333; 
closing of, 333. 

Ranelagh, Earl of, 312, 313. 

Rann, John, 349. 

Rawlinson, Dan, 44. 

Rawlinson, Mrs., 45. 

1 ob ater coffee-house, 205, 
207. 

Ray, Martha, 206, 207. 

Red Lion inn, 72, 73. 

** Retaliation,” 234. 

Reynolds, Sir Joshua, 80, 103, 
252, 255, 256, 257, 258, 259, 
262, 276, 322, 353. 

Rich, John, 282. 

Richard II, 6. 

Richardson, Samuel, 65. 

Richmond, Duke of, 20, 21. 

Ridley, Bishop, 57. 

Robinson, Sir Thomas, 313, 
314, 

Rochester, Lord, 214. 

Rock, Richard, 76, 77. 

Rogers, Samuel, 253. 

Cae Pasqua, 164, 165, 172, 
177. 

Rose tavern, 127, 128, 337. 

Rossetti, Dante Gabriel, 91. 


364. 


Index 


Rota Club, 235, 236. 

Rousseau, I J., 90. 

Rowlandson, Thomas, 59, 179, 
274. + 

Rummer tavern, 113, 114, 115. 


St. Albans, Duchess of, 247. 

St. Alban’s tavern, 143, 144. 

St. James’s coffee-house, 200, 
233, 234. 

St. James’s Palace, 196. 

St. Paul’s churchyard, 62, 63, 


64. 

St. Paul’s coffee-house, 185, 
186, 192. 

Salter, James, 238, 239, 240. 

Salutation tavern, 65, 66, 67. 

Sam’s coffee-house, 177, 178. 

Sanchy, Mr., 127. 

Sandwich, Earl of, 206. 

Saqui, Mme., 300. 

Saracen’s Head tavern, Snow 
Hill, 155, 156. 

“ Sarrazin’s Head,” Westmin- 
ster, 138, 155. 

Savage, Richard, 221. 

Scott, Peter, 139. 

Scott, Sir Walter, 41. 

Sedley, Sir Charles, 127. 

Sedley, Jos., 309, 310. 

Selden, John, 156. 

Selwyn, George, 233, 269, 271, 

272, 273, 277, 278, 279, 286, 
288. 

Shadwell, Thomas, 126, 

Shakespeare, William, 21, 22, 
23, 26, 30, 31, 33, 34, 36, 38, 
88, 159. 

Sharp, Rebecca, 309, 310. 

Sheffield, Lord, 110. 

Shepherd, George, 12. 

Sheridan, R. B., 106, 205, 256, 
279, 280. 


i “Ship and Turtle tavern, 46, 47. 


Slaughter’s coffee-house, 225, 
Slaughter, Thomas, 225. 
Sloane, Sir Hans, 203. 
Smith, Adam, 256. 

Smith, Captain John, 156. 


Smith,J."T.. 35): 

Smollett, Tobias, 64, 65, 306, 
322, 324, 325. 

Smyrna coffee-house, 2 226, <7, 
228. 

Snow, Sophia, 354. 

Somerset coffee-house, 205. 

Southey, Robert, 65, 66. 

South Sea Bubble, 178. 

Southwark, map of, 1; mean- 
ing of name, 2; inns of, 3; 
Tabard inn, 3; Bear inn, 14; 
fair of, 19; Boar’s Head inn, 
21° George inn, 23; White 
Hart inn, 24. 

Spectator, The, 74, 178, 182, 
183, 186, 187, 233, 295. 

Spenser, Edmund, 140, 141. 

Spotted Dog inn, 103. 

Staple inn, 68. 

Star and Garter tavern, 143, 
144, 

Steele, Sir Richard, 100, 101, 
181, 200, 215, 216, 217, 219, 
226, 227, 238, 239, 240, 249. 

Steevens, George, 339. 

Stella, Journal to, 144, 227. 

Stevens, George Alexander, 
121, 122. 

Stewart, Admiral Keith, 280, 
281. 

Stewart, General William, 231, 

Stillingfleet, Benjamin, 251. 

Stony, Captain, 108, 109. 

Stow, John, 4, 11, 24, 39, 47, 
51, 103, 141. 

Strand, Inns and taverns of, 
102. 


Strype, John, 103. 

Stuart, Frances, 20, 21. 

Suckling, Sir John, 17, 18. 

Suffolk Street taverns, 147. 

Swan inn, 110, 111. 

Swift, Jonathan, 61, 64, 100, 
144, 227, 268. E 


Tabard inn, 3, 4, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 
11, 12, 18, 14, 33, 353, 
Tarleton, Richard, 64, 


Index 


365 


Tassoni’s Secchia Rapita, 212. 

Tatler, The, 101, 200, 215, 226, 
233. 

Tearsheet, Doll, 33. 

Temple Bar, 75, 84, 196. 

Tennyson, Alfred, Lord, 84, 85, 
87, 88, 255, 256. 

Thackeray, W. M., 309. 

Thatched House tavern, 149, 
150. 

Thomson, James, 228. 

Three as sign of London tav- 
erns, 41, 42. 

Three Cranes’ Lane, 39. 

Three Cranes in the Vintry, 39, 
40, 41. 

Three Nuns tavern, 42. 

Three Tuns tavern, 57. 

Thurlow, Lord Chancellor, 150, 
195, 197, 198. 

Tibbs, Mr. and Mrs., 304, 
305. 

Tickell, Thomas, 277. 

Till, William, 208. 

Tom’s_ coffee-house, 
Lane, 180. 
Tom’s_ coffee-house, 
Garden, 208, 209. 
*«'Tom Jones,’’ 69, 70. 
Tonson, Jacob, 244, 245, 246, 
248. 

Tooke, Horne, 106. 

Torre, 339, 341. 

Totenhall Court, 154. 

Turk’s Head coffee-house, 235. 

Turner, J. M. W., 119. 

Tyers, Jonathan, 296, 297, 299, 
309, 335, 337. 

Tyers, Tom, 309. 


“ Vanity Fair,” 309. 
Vauxhall, 83, 230, 291-311; 
plan of, 299; Rotunda at, 
300; attractions of, 300, 301, 
307; supper party at, 301- 
304; closing of, 309. 
Vernon, Admiral, 118, 119. 
Vittoria, victory of, 308. 
Voltaire, 119. 


Birchin 


Covent 


Will’s 


Wales, Prince of (George IV), 
228, 232, 279, 280, 286. 
Walker’s “ The Original,” 267. 
Walpole, Horace, 76, 119, 148, 
204, 205, 206, 223, 230, 252, 
275, 317, 318, 319, 321. 
Walton’s, Isaac, ‘‘ Complete 
Angler,” 93. 
Ward, Ned, 244, 282. 
Warren, Sir William, 142. 
Warwick, Countess of, 215. 
Washington, George, 106. 
Washington, Purser, 142, 143. 
Waterman’s Arms tavern, 350. 
‘Webb, Young,” 232. 
Weller, Sam, 28, 29. 
Wellington, Duke of, 308. 
Weltzie’s Club, 286, 287. 
West, Captain Thomas, 209. 
Westminster taverns and cof- 
fee-houses, 234, 235. 
“ Wet Paper Club,” 264. 
Wheatley, Henry B., 74, 283. 
White’s Chocolate-house, 200, 
268, 269, 271, 272, 273, 274, 
275, 278. 
White Conduit House, 341- 
345. 
White Hart inn, 24, 25, 26, 27, 
28, 29. 
White Hart inn, Bishopsgate 
Street Within, 47, 48. 
White Horse Cellar, 152, 153. 
“White, Mary, or the Murder 
at the Old Tabard,” 14. 
Wildman’s coffee-house, 205. 
““ Wilkes and Liberty,” 196. 
Wilkes, John, 119. 
William III, 115, 120, 173. 
William, King, statue of, 38. 
Wilson, ‘‘ Long-Bow,” 265, 


266. 

Will’s coffee-house, Belle Sau- 
vage yard, 193, 194. 

coffee-house, Covent 
Garden, 200, 209, 210, 211, 
213, 215, 216, 217. 

“ Will Waterproof’s L 
Monologue,” 85, 86, 87. 


ical 


366 Index 


———_—_—_—_—=====_| | 


Windmill tavern, 58, 59. Wright, Thomas, 31. 
Weare Club, 264, 265, | Wyatt, Sir Thomas, 75, 76. 


266. 
Wolcot, John, ‘‘ Peter Pindar,” | Yarmouth, Lady, 319. 
129, 130. York, Duke of, 20, 142, 308, 
Wren, Sir Christopher, 66. Young, Edward, 250, 271, 


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